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3   1822  00108  8038 


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LA  JOLLA,  CALIFORNIA 


3  1822  00108  8038 


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THE  KEYNOTE 


ALPHONSE  DE  CHATEAUBRIANT 


THE    KEYNOTE 

(Monsieur  des  Lourdines) 


by 
ALPHONSE  DE  CHATEAUBRIANT 

TRANSLATED    BY 

LADY  THEODORA  DAVIDSON 


HODDER  &  STOUGHTON 

NEW  YORK 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,   1912, 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


PREFACE 

IT  has  been  a  privilege  to  translate  a  work 
so  daintily,  so  poetically  written,  as  the 
volume  which  started  on  its  French  ca- 
reer as  "Monsieur  des  Lourdines"  and  is  now 
presented  to  English  readers  as  "The  Key- 
note." 

That  it  won  the  grand  prize  of  the  Aca- 
demie  Goncourt  is  a  tribute  not  only  to  its  own 
inherent  qualities  but  also  to  the  perception 
of  those  who  exercise  the  right  of  selection. 
Its  merit  lies,  not  in  liveliness  of  plot,  wealth 
of  incident,  or  pandering  to  the  elemental  pas- 
sions, but  in  the  extraordinary  delicacy  of  its 
appeal  to  the  best  and  purest  side  of  human 
nature.  It  touches  that  sense  of  poetry  and 
mystery  which,  often  jealously  concealed  if 
secretly  acknowledged,  lurks  in  the  back- 
ground of  the  majority  of  cultivated  minds. 

The  title  chosen  for  the  English  version 
may  seem  at  first  sight  to  have  little  connec- 
tion with  the  story,  but  it  is  hoped  that  it  will 
quickly  vindicate  itself.     It  is  indicated  in 

v 


vi  PREFACE 

these  lines  by  Romain  Rolland :  "Tout  se  que 
louche  I'amour,  est  sauve  de  la  mort." 

Love  is  the  Keynote  of  the  Book. 

The  author  has  demonstrated  the  complete 
victory,  by  simple  force  of  love,  of  an  insig- 
nificant-looking, unfashionable  father,  over 
the  smart,  selfish,  superficial  character  of  his 
son.  Love  of  nature,  love  paternal,  love 
patriarchal  for  property  and  dependants,  love 
of  music,  a  spirit  without  guile  or  rancour, 
transform  a  shy,  ill-dressed,  half-educated 
country  squire,  into  a  Bayard  "sans  peur  et 
sans  reproche."  With  barely  a  word  spoken 
on  either  side,  the  conflict  between  two  almost 
irreconcilable  natures  wages;  deft  touches 
allow  the  reader  to  delve  beneath  the  surface, 
and  watch  the  progress  of  affairs.  The  scene 
where  the  final  subjugation  of  the  son's  hard 
egoism  is  accomplished,  quite  unconsciously, 
by  the  modest  hero  of  the  book,  is  one  of  sheer 
poetry.  The  contrast  between  the  beauty  of 
his  mind  and  the  homeliness  of  his  exterior,  is 
a  masterpiece  of  imagination. 

As  is  well  known  on  both  sides  of  the  Chan- 
nel, the  late  Edmond  de  Goncourt  bequeathed 
a  considerable  sum  of  money,  to  found  an 
Academy   for   the   encouragement   of   young 


PREFACE  vii 

writers.  Its  members  are  paid,  and  in  them  is 
vested  the  power  to  award  each  year  a  prize  of 
two  hundred  pounds,  to  the  best  work  of 
fiction. 

The  name  of  Alphonse  de  Chateaubriant  is 
comparatively  new  in  the  modern  world  of 
Letters.  With  one  stride,  this  youthful  author 
has  stepped  into  the  front  rank.  Thanks  to 
the  Academie  Goncourt,  he  has  been  accorded 
instant  recognition;  and  those  who,  but  a 
short  while  ago,  knew  nothing  of  his  talent, 
now  acclaim  him  as  the  most  gifted  of  con- 
temporary prose-writers. 

"The  Keynote"  is  offered  with  full  confi- 
dence in  its  intrinsic  excellence,  but  with  an 
appeal  for  the  indulgence  of  cultured  readers, 
in  view  of  the  many  difficulties  that  beset  the 
path  of  the  translator  of  a  work,  the  merit  of 
Which  lie9  so  largely  in  grace  of  diction  and 
distinction  of  style. 

Theodora  Davidson. 


PARTI 


THE   KEYNOTE 


CHAPTER  I 

FOR  two  long  hours  four  men  had  been 
working  inside  a  trench  dug  round  the 
foot  of  a  gigantic  young  elm.  They 
were  hacking  great  gashes  into  its  sides.  Prac- 
tically every  root  was  severed,  yet  the  tree 
stood  firm.  The  fresh  white  wood  quivered 
under  their  blows.  The  men  strained  and 
gasped  as  they  swung  the  axes  rhythmically 
round  their  heads.  The  proprietor  stood 
watching,  a  few  paces  away.  At  each  stroke 
his  features  contracted  painfully,  and  every 
now  and  then  he  cast  a  glance,  half  sad,  half 
angry,  at  a  window  of  the  chateau,  just  above 
his  head. 

"What  a  pity!  What  a  shame!"  he  mut- 
tered regretfully. 

"These  healthy  roots  need  double  the 
amount  of  work  and  strength  I"  grunted  one  of 
the  fellows,  as  he  rose  to  take  breath. 

3 


4  THE  KEYNOTE 

It  was  mid-November.  Rain  had  fallen 
steadily  for  over  a  week;  moisture  clung  to  the 
leaves;  a  silvery  radiance,  half  mist,  half 
rime,  clothed  the  woods;  vapour  hovered  in 
clouds  above  the  earth  in  the  surrounding  pas- 
turage. 

At  length  one  of  the  gang,  a  sturdy  grey- 
beard in  a  short  blouse  belted  round  the  waist, 
threw  down  his  axe  and  the  others  quickly  fol- 
lowed suit.  He  pushed  tentatively  at  the 
trunk  and  gazed  up  into  the  branches. 

"Well,  Celestin?"  queried  his  master,  "is  it 
time  for  the  rope,  do  you  think?" 

"I  reckon  so,"  drawled  Celestin,  proceeding 
leisurely  to  fasten  the  end  of  a  cord  which  lay 
ready  coiled  on  the  ground,  around  his 
middle. 

Meanwhile  the  others  had  emerged  from  the 
trench,  scarlet  in  the  face  and  mopping  the 
sweat  from  their  brows,  for  the  morning  was 
close  and  the  atmosphere  saturated  with 
humidity. 

Celestin  was  adjusting  the  ladder  against 
the  elm  when  his  master  hurriedly  inter- 
posed: 

"Hold  on,  Celestin!  wait  a  moment! 
Come  now,  frankly  I  don't  care  to  see  you 


THE  KEYNOTE  5 

doing  that  at  your  age.  Can't  you  leave  it  to 
one  of  the  others?" 

"One  of  the  others,  Master  1  Yes,  very 
likely!  The  sort  of  thing  I  would  do,  eh?" 
and  Celestin  toiled  heavily  up  the  ladder, 
the  top-most  rung  of  which  just  reached  the 
point  where  the  trunk  tapered  away  suffi- 
ciently to  allow  of  climbing. 

"We  dursn't  interfere,"  grinned  one  of  the 
yokels ;  "he  be  a  rare  old  squirrel !" 

Celestin  clung  for  a  moment,  the  rope  un- 
coiling beneath  him.  He  had  thrown  his 
arms  round  the  tree,  bending  his  ear  to  its  side, 
as  if  listening  to  the  heart-beats  of  the  victim. 
Presently  he  began  to  raise  himself  inch  by 
inch.  His  loins  worked  with  lizard-like 
suppleness;  the  bark  crackled  in  the  grip 
of  his  bare  toes;  finally  his  horny  heels  dis- 
appeared among  the  green  branches,  and 
his  movements  could  only  be  measured  by 
the  slow  unfurling  of  the  rope  along  the 
trunk. 

"Hello!"  shouted  one  of  the  men,  shielding 
his  mouth  with  his  hands  to  make  his  voice 
carry,  "Celestin!     Hi!  are  you  all  right?" 

They  listened;  the  sound  of  a  song  floated 
down  in  reply.     The  soughing  of  the  breeze 


G  THE  KEYNOTE 

in  the  leaves  veiled  both  words  and  tune,  but 
they  recognised  the  local  chanty: 

"II  etait  un  bounhomme, 
Qui  gardait  dos  agnias, 
Qui  gardait  dos  agnias." 


"Sings  like  a  nightingale,  does  old  Celestin," 
they  chaffed. 

The  bit  of  ground  where  they  stood  was  a 
grassy  open  space,  much  defaced  by  the  tread 
of  cattle,  and  bordered  by  ancient  trees  under 
whose  shelter  nestled  some  farm-buildings. 
It  was  an  insignificant  corner  of  the  property 
and  was  practically  deserted.  The  chief  por- 
tion of  the  traffic  centred  round  the  court- 
yard on  the  opposite  side,  where  stood  the  offi- 
ces, cow-sheds,  stables,  and  out-houses.  At 
the  further  end  of  an  avenue  of  the  splendid 
chestnuts  so  universally  found  in  the  thickly 
wooded  land  of  Poitou  began  the  open  coun- 
try. 

Beyond  the  trees  the  ground  fell  away,  black 
and  peaty,  intersected  by  treacherous,  moss- 
grown  marshes.  The  woods  covered  ap- 
proximately two  hundred  and  fifty  acres,  start- 
ing from  the  two  wings  of  the  chateau.  The 
latter  was   an  old   dwelling-house   in   Louis 


THE  KEYNOTE  7 

XIII.  style,  bearing  in  its  aspect  a  certain 
dignity  which  proclaimed  its  right  to  rank 
as  a  "maison  de  noblesse." 

Its  long  single  storey  was  surmounted  by  a 
saddle-backed  roof,  the  slates  of  which,  thickly 
overgrown  with  moss  and  yellow  lichen, 
sloped  steeply  forward  over  diamond-paned 
casements.  The  walls  had  faded  to  a  uniform 
warm  buff.  To  the  right,  a  disused  chapel 
reared  its  slender  cross  above  a  vigorous  fig- 
tree. 

It  was,  in  very  truth,  a  kingdom  of  silence, 
tenderly  sheltered  from  the  bustle  of  the 
world  beyond.  The  chance  traveller, 
journeying  thirty  miles  from  Poitiers  along 
the  high-road  would  pause  when  the  mouldy 
retreat  broke  upon  his  astonished  gaze,  and 
to  his  wondering  questions  would  receive  an- 
swer: "Oh,  don't  you  know?  That  chateau 
belongs  to  Monsieur  Timothee,  our  Monsieur 
des  Lourdines — that  is  Petit- Fougeray!" 

Celestin  had  fastened  the  line  round  the 
top  of  the  elm.  He  now  came  slithering 
down  as  if  the  trunk  were  a  greasy  pole.  On 
reaching  the  ground  he  shook  himself  like  a 
terrier  and  rubbed  his  eyes  vigorously  to  rid 
them  of  the  dust  they  had  collected  among 


8  THE  KEYNOTE 

the  ants'  nests  above.  His  comrades  who  had 
returned  to  the  trench,  teased  him: 

"What  price  climbing?  It's  your  slender 
figure  does  the  trick!" 

"That's  all  right,"  answered  Celestin.  "I 
carry  my  fat  inside,  like  the  goats." 

"Why  don't  you  get  married,  old  chap? 
With  a  voice  and  a  pair  of  legs  like  yours, 
there  ought  to  be  no  difficulty." 

"Thank  you  for  nothing,  boys ;  I'm  not  out 
for  that." 

Then  they  fell  to  work  again,  making  the 
chips  fly  with  their  hatchets,  and  chanting  the 
while: 

"II  etait  un  bounhomme, 
Qui  gardait  dos  agnias, 
Qui  gardait  dos  agnias, 
II  n'en  gardait  point  guere 
II  n'en  gardait  que  trois." 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  peered  upwards 
to  see  whether  the  tree  was  beginning  to  move ; 
he  shook  his  head  regretfully,  like  a  man  about 
to  suffer  a  severe  loss. 

"What  a  pity!"  he  faltered  again.  "He 
was  such  a  beauty!" 

He  was  a  small  man  of  about  sixty;  the  ordi- 
nary type  of  a  country  gentleman  but  with- 
out the  rather  aggressive  assurance  and  stolid 


THE  KEYNOTE  9 

self-possession  which  usually  distinguish  the 
loutish  squires  of  sporting  districts.  He  was 
narrow-shouldered  but  his  slenderness  was 
suggestive  of  nervous  strength.  His  well-knit 
figure  was  alert  and  wiry.  His  thin,  sensitive 
features  and  prominent  cheek-bones  were 
domed  by  the  broad  brow  of  the  dreamer.  A 
pair  of  intensely  blue  eyes  looked  out  from 
beneath  their  long,  heavy  lids,  with  the  trust- 
ful candour  of  a  child.  Into  the  patient  face, 
deeply  scored  by  lines  of  sorrow,  there  came 
at  times  a  gleam  of  some  great  inward  con- 
tent, rippling  over  it  like  sunshine  breaking 
through  clouds.  He  wore  a  weather-stained 
old  corduroy  coat,  a  battered  felt  hat,  and  a 
pair  of  strong  sabots  which  kept  his  feet  snug 
and  dry. 

It  would  have  been  hard  to  pick  out  a  man 
more  completely  in  accord  with  his  surround- 
ings than  was  this  little  country  squire  in  his 
ancient  chateau.  Both  belonged  to  the  soil; 
both  had,  as  it  were,  faded  together.  This 
might  possibly  be  explained  by  the  fact  that 
for  centuries  the  des  Lourdines  had  lived  and 
died  at  Petit- Fougeray;  they  had  always  en- 
joyed some  measure  of  consideration,  were 
well-connected,  and  possessed  comfortable 
means. 


10  THE  KEYNOTE 

Unfortunately,  under  the  rule  of  the  pres- 
ent holder  the  family  was  beginning  to  lose 
position.  Monsieur  des  Lourdines  was  an  in- 
vincible recluse,  and  though  he  did  not  so 
much  object  to  seeing  people  himself,  he  did 
very  particularly  object  to  being  seen,  so  that 
his  neighbours  had  at  last  given  him  up  as 
hopeless  and  suffered  him  to  shut  himself  up 
in  his  Fougeray,  like  a  pigeon  in  the  cote.  He 
was  perfectly  content.  One  of  his  delights 
was  the  improvement  of  his  property,  not  for 
the  sake  of  gain,  but  for  sheer  love  of  the  land. 
When  people  reproached  him  for  never  go- 
ing to  town,  he  listened  quietly  and  said: 
"True,  true,  I  suppose  I  shall  die  without 
having  lived." 

He  spoke  seldom;  still  less  could  he  be  in- 
duced to  hold  conversation  with  his  equals; 
but  the  local  postman,  or  the  village  constable 
knew  that  when  they  met  "no?  Monsieur"  on 
their  rounds,  they  would  be  button-holed,  led 
into  a  certain  arbour  under  the  lime-trees, 
given  a  glass  of  white  wine  and  questioned  as 
to  their  movements  and  doings  in  kindly  tones 
which  betokened,  not  curiosity,  but  genuine 
interest  in  themselves. 

In  the  same  way,  on  Sundays  after  Mass, 
the  labourers  were  expected  at  the  bowling- 


THE  KEYNOTE  11 

green  the  squire  had  made  for  the  purpose,  to 
"play  bowls  with  Master"  or  "Monsieur 
Timothee."  No  girl  on  the  estate  would  have 
dreamt  of  marrying  without  consulting  him. 
In  short,  little  though  he  realized  it  himself, 
he  had  become  the  arbiter  of  the  destiny  of 
the  whole  country-side. 

He  was  a  slave  to  habit.  The  bare  sug- 
gestion of  change  filled  him  with  discomfort. 
Thus  day  after  day  passed  in  unbroken 
monotony.  He  rose  early  and  went  down  to 
the  courtyard  to  take  a  look  round  the  stables 
and  cow-houses;  he  loved  strolling  through 
the  comfortable  sheds,  fragrant  with  the  sug- 
gestion of  animal  life  and  warm  milk,  before 
encountering  the  fresh  morning  air.  He  then 
made  the  round  of  the  kitchen-gardens, 
marked  the  amount  of  dew,  pinched  the  pears 
on  the  walls,  pulled  up  a  weed  or  admitted 
air  to  a  garden-frame,  and  invariably  wound 
up  operations  by  a  crack  with  Celestin,  his 
bailiff,  odd-man,  factotum,  crony.  The  two 
were  never  at  a  loss  for  a  subject.  One  day 
it  would  be  an  improvement  in  drainage;  an- 
other, widening  a  forest-ride  or  planting  out 
an  empty  space  in  the  grounds. 

These  early  morning  talks  were  a  never- 
failing  satisfaction  to  both  master  and  man. 


12  THE  KEYNOTE 

Later,  he  would  retire  to  his  business-room  in 
readiness  to  receive  any  of  the  farmers  who 
might  wish  to  discuss  for  the  hundredth  time 
the  advisability  of  planting  beets  in  the  Grelet 
field,  or  sowing  colza  in  the  reserve  du  Sourd. 
He  farmed  on  the  co-operative  system.  Per- 
haps he  would  indite  some  such  letter  as  the 
following:  "My  dear  Magui,  don't  forget 
that  the  fair  at  Thouarsais  is  coming  on  soon, 
etc.,  etc." 

These  and  kindred  avocations  passed  the 
time  until  dejeuner.  As  a  rule  he  ate  his 
meals  alone,  on  account  of  his  wife's  invalid 
habits;  but  at  stated  intervals  Madame  des 
Lourdines  made  a  gallant  effort  to  join  him, 
in  deference  both  to  his  wish  and  to  her  doc- 
tor's orders.  Her  journey  downstairs  was 
quite  a  little  event,  and  was  a  work  of  time 
and  difficulty.  The  staircase  being  narrow 
and  Madame  des  Lourdines  stout,  she  oc- 
cupied the  whole  width  of  the  steps ;  Monsieur 
des  Lourdines  therefore  followed,  laden  with 
shawls,  pillows,  and  a  footstool,  beguiling  the 
tedium  of  the  way  and  diverting  the  suffer- 
er's attention  with  jokes  and  little  stories.  The 
return  to  her  rooms  was  a  still  more  serious 
affair.  She  had  to  be  coaxed  up  each  step 
like  a  child,  with  little  encouraging  words: 


THE  KEYNOTE  13 

"Now  then!  Once  again!  One  for  the  cat! 
two  for  the  parson!"  One  name  only  was 
carefully  avoided.  No  one  said,  "One  for 
Monsieur  Anthime!" 

She  was  a  woman  of  great  determination, 
the  daughter  of  a  leading  magistrate  of  the 
Court  of  Poitiers.  She  exacted  implicit 
obedience  to  her  orders.  It  was  by  her  wish 
that  the  elm  had  been  sacrificed.  Her  un- 
fortunate husband  had  made  use  of  every  pos- 
sible subterfuge.  He  had  even  tried  the  ef- 
fect of  a  blunt  refusal,  but  she  remained 
adamant,  and  finally  gave  way  to  temper.  As 
the  effects  of  anger  were  dangerous  in  her 
state  of  health  he  was  forced  to  consent  at 
last,  but  it  nearly  broke  his  heart. 

The  first  half  of  Monsieur  des  Lourdines' 
day  practically  resembled  that  of  the  majority 
of  country  gentlemen ;  it  was  in  the  later  part 
that  he  broke  loose  from  tradition. 

Regularly  every  afternoon,  after  spending 
a  few  moments  with  his  wife,  he  took  his  spud, 
called  his  dog,  and  left  Petit- Fougeray  to  en- 
gulph  himself  in  the  forest  or  stride  across 
country  as  if  the  devil  were  at  his  heels.  The 
neighbouring  land  consisted  of  wooded 
groves,  gloomy  lanes,  with  here  and  there  a 
blue  vista  of  distant  uplands  across  smiling 


14  THE  KEYNOTE 

valleys  whose  scent  of  sweet  grasses  and  wild- 
flowers  rose  aromatically  to  the  tiled  roofs  of 
crumbling  hamlets  perched  above  on  the  hill- 
side. 

It  would  have  been  difficult  to  catch  the 
Squire  when  he  was  fairly  off  on  one  of  his 
wild  rambles,  vaulting  hurdles  and  stiles, 
passing  from  one  field  to  another,  up-rooting 
thistles,  destroying  mole-hills,  killing  adders. 
Yet,  a  very  little  thing  would  suffice  to  arrest 
his  attention  and  start  him  off  on  one  of  his 
long  day-dreams:  the  reflection  of  a  bit  of 
blue  sky  in  a  puddle,  a  bird  fluttering  in  a 
bush,  the  creaking  of  a  plough.  He  never 
tired.  He  would  walk  on  and  on  till  dark- 
ness fell,  watching,  listening,  hearing  voices 
in  the  air,  reading  signs  in  the  clouds  over- 
head; solitary,  and  at  peace. 


As  the  men  neared  the  completion  of  their 
task  they  threw  more  and  more  vigour  into 
their  blows.  The  two  principal  roots  had 
shared  the  lot  of  the  others  and  the  tangle 
of  severed  ends  combined  to  form  a  stump  like 
some  gigantic  clubhead,  steeped  in  the 
blackish  water  which  had  oozed  from  the 
sides  of  the  trench.     The  axes  struck  down- 


THE  KEYNOTE  15 

ward  with  the  hollow  reverberation  of  voices 
in  an  empty  house.  Stray  birds  perching  for 
a  second  to  pipe  a  note  or  two,  flew  off  af- 
frighted at  the  sound. 

"God,  what  a  murder!  What  a  crime !" 
ejaculated  Monsieur  des  Lourdines  at  inter- 
vals. 

He  was  profoundly  moved  by  this  wanton 
act  of  destruction.  It  caused  him  positive 
torture  to  fell  a  tree  in  full  health  and  vigour. 

"It  is  moving!"  cried  Celestin. 

The  men  threw  down  their  tools  and  seized 
the  rope. 

"We  must  look  out  for  ourselves  1" 

"All  right,  all  right!  It  must  fall  that 
side!" 

"Pull  this  way!  round  here!"  shouted 
Monsieur  des  Lourdines,  running  up.  He 
was  afraid  one  of  the  boughs  might  damage 
the  roof  of  the  chateau. 

The  men  had  harnessed  themselves  one  be- 
hind the  other,  and  were  straining  vigorously, 
digging  their  heels  into  the  turf  and  giving 
steady  pulls  in  unison. 

"Now  then!  all  together!  One!  Two! 
now  again!" 

The  eight  brawny  arms  lay  along  the  rope 
like  a  knotted  brown  thong. 


16  THE  KEYNOTE 

Gradually  a  slow  quiver  passed  through  the 
limbs  of  the  forest  giant;  the  trunk  swayed 
slowly;  a  crackling  sound  like  flames  licking 
dry  wood  started  at  the  roots,  spread,  multi- 
plied, burst  forth  into  a  rending,  tearing, 
splintering,  thundering  crash,  and  the  great 
tree  started  on  its  last  journey. 

The  men  hurried,  helter-skelter,  into  safety. 

With  a  dull  thud  that  shook  the  earth,  the 
whole  space  around  was  instantaneously  cov- 
ered with  a  hurtle  of  smashing  boughs  and 
fluttering  leaves,  strewn  as  if  by  some  furious 
storm.  For  an  instant  more  the  monster  was 
convulsed  throughout  its  length,  and  then, 
gently,  passed  to  its  long  rest. 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  had  turned  and 
was  moving  quickly  away. 

Then  someone  appeared  at  one  of  the  win- 
dows: a  woman;  her  large  face  was  wreathed 
in  grey  curls,  her  broad  figure  clothed  in  a 
white  dressing-gown  with  frills  at  the  neck 
and  wrists.  She  waved  her  arms  expressively, 
as  if  exclaiming — 

"I  saw  it  all!  I  was  watching!  I  saw 
the  tree  fall!  Good  indeed!  Now  one  sees 
daylight  at  last!" 


CHAPTER  II 

THAT  afternoon  the  master  started  on 
his  usual  tramp.  At  the  end  of  the 
avenue,  Celestin  overtook  him,  stand- 
ing upright  in  a  farm-cart  in  company  with 
a  calf,  three  sheep  and  a  litter  of  sucking  pigs 
he  was  conveying  to  market.  A  big  fair  was 
to  take  place  the  following  day  at  Poitiers. 
Celestin  was  to  buy  a  cow. 

"Choose  one  with  a  healthy-looking  udder," 
the  Squire  called  after  him,  "and  mind  it's 
a  roan.  The  mistress  is  particular  about  that, 
and  it's  safer  to  get  what  she  likes." 

Celestin  waved  his  whip  in  answer,  and 
rumbled  off  up  the  hill  towards  Creneraie, 
while  his  master  turned  downwards  in  the 
opposite  direction. 

His  appearance  was  proof  sufficient  that 
he  had  no  intention  of  going  among  people: 
he  wore  loose  waggoner's  top-boots  and  a 
faded  bottle-green  coat,  and  carried  a  game- 
bag  slung  over  his  shoulder  and  a  spud  un- 
der his  arm.     His  dog  "Lirot"  trotted  at  his 

17 


18  THE  KEYNOTE 

heels.  He  was  a  big  mongrel,  with  a  pointed 
muzzle  and  a  wiry  black  coat.  Every  now 
and  then  a  glance  of  comradeship  passed  from 
the  blue  eyes  of  the  man  to  the  yellow  ones 
of  the  animal. 

The  sky  was  steel-grey,  dotted  here  and 
there  with  rain-clouds. 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  loved  walking. 
The  regular  measure  of  his  footfalls  fed  his 
brain  with  a  rhythmical  flood  of  thoughts 
and  dreams.  Autumn,  too,  was  his  favourite 
season;  he  felt  nearer  akin  to  Nature,  more 
closely  in  touch  with  her  moods,  through  the 
soft  caress  of  its  humidity  on  his  cheek;  he 
revelled  in  its  murky  scent,  its  veiled  at- 
mosphere. 

"Well,  Lirot  boy,  are  we  going  to  have  a 
good  day?" 

His  eyes  rested  absently  on  the  distant  hills 
and  the  red-tiled  roofs  which  showed  faintly 
through  the  yellowing  leaves  of  the  trees;  he 
smiled  to  himself  at  the  prospect  of  entering 
the  forest  and  remaining  there  until  night- 
fall. 

A  singular  motive  had  led  him  of  late  to 
take  his  walks  in  another  direction.  He  had 
deliberately  denied  himself,  in  order  to  en- 


THE  KEYNOTE  19 

hance  the  full  rapture  of  his  first  sight  of  the 
fulfilled  glory  of  autumn. 

As  he  neared  the  long-anticipated  treat, 
his  spirits  rose;  he  forgot  the  elm  and  wanted 
to  sing.  When  it  broke  upon  his  view,  glow- 
ing golden  on  the  hillside,  his  heart  throbbed, 
and  he  hastened  his  steps.  Softly,  noise- 
lessly he  trod,  like  one  entering  a  sanctuary. 

"Ah!"  he  breathed  happily.  "How  good! 
How  beautiful!" 

He  stood  with  upraised  head,  motionless, 
watching,  listening. 

There  had  been  no  lifting  of  the  slightly 
thickened  atmosphere.  A  brooding  fog 
bathed  the  bracken,  the  blackened  tree-trunks, 
and  the  arm-like  boughs  with  their  wreath- 
ing branches.  One  of  these  had  snapped,  and 
hung,  ready  to  fall.  The  tapering  stems  of 
young  firs  detached  themselves  faintly  from 
the  encircling  mist;  and  amidst  this  trans- 
formation from  woodland  tangle  into  a  lofty 
illumined  nave,  beneath  this  dome  of  leaf- 
age parched  by  treacherous  winds,  there  lay 
a  lower  realm;  a  damp  litter  of  buck-thorn 
and  elder,  harmonizing  with  the  purple  of 
hazels  and  the  safTron  of  maples.  Moisture 
trickled  from  the  twigs,  clung  to  the  spider's 


20  THE  KEYNOTE 

webs,  and  soaked  into  the  slimy  bark;  leaves 
detached  themselves  and  fell,  saturated,  one 
by  one,  on  to  the  quiet  earth  beneath.  One 
felt  that  this  languid  drip,  drip,  and  the  ab- 
solute calm,  spread  away  into  immeasurable 
distance;  for  the  forest  of  Vouvantes  is  im- 
mense and  gloomy,  and  full  of  wild  glades 
and  gorges,  a  relic  of  ancient  Gaul.  Barely 
forty  years  before,  the  last  remnants  of  the 
Vendean  insurgents  had  been  mown  down 
among  the  undergrowth.  Two  military  roads, 
cut  through  its  depths,  still  afforded  evidence 
of  the  foresight  of  Napoleon;  but  they  were 
now  only  disturbed  by  the  passing  of  the 
diligence  from  Poitiers  to  Nantes,  or  by  oc- 
casional carriers'  carts. 

Lirot  had  rushed  deliriously  into  the 
brushwood.  Monsieur  des  Lourdines  fol- 
lowed. He  advanced  cautiously,  parting  the 
tight  embrace  of  the  stems,  forcing  a  passage 
for  his  feet  amongst  the  mass  of  sodden 
leaves.  Low  branches  snapped  together  be- 
hind him,  and  with  bent  back  and  eyes  fixed 
intently  upon  the  ground  at  his  feet  he  moved 
slowly  forward  through  bracken  and  bram- 
bles. 

Lirot  barked  a  signal  to  his  master,  but  the 


THE  KEYNOTE  21 

latter  took  no  notice.  In  the  thickest  of  the 
tangle  he  had  again  stopped  short,  watching 
.  .  .  listening.  .  .  . 

The  spaciousness  and  silence  never  failed 
at  first  to  give  him  a  queer  feeling  of  insig- 
nificance; then  by  degrees  a  consciousness  of 
some  mysterious  affinity  with  the  tree-world 
would  grow  upon  him.  No  longer  was  he 
Timothee  des  Lourdines,  a  man  of  middle 
age;  the  sap  of  chestnuts  and  beech  trees  filled 
his  veins;  his  spirit,  detached  from  his  body, 
floated  away  into  space,  mingling  with  the 
shapes  and  sounds  of  the  forest. 

How  well  he  had  learned  to  understand 
the  trees  in  the  course  of  the  thirty-eight 
years  he  had  spent  among  them!  His  first 
realization  of  the  joy  it  was  theirs  to  bestow 
dated  back  to  the  time  when  he  had  at  last 
escaped  from  the  thrall  of  the  gloomy  college 
at  Poitiers  where  his  father,  a  soured,  eccen- 
tric emigre,  had  placed  him.  He  had  re- 
mained within  its  hated  walls  until  the 
death  of  his  father  had  set  him  free.  He  re- 
turned to  Petit-Fougeray  a  shy,  unsociable 
youth  of  twenty.  His  early  training  was 
probably  responsible  for  his  faults  of  man- 
ner. He  had  never  been  able  to  acquire 
polish  or  ease  in  society.     He  dreaded  and 


22  THE  KEYNOTE 

hated  meeting  his  fellow-creatures.  Thus 
having  reduced  his  relations  with  humanity 
to  their  narrowest  limits,  he  was  thrown  back 
upon  Nature  for  companionship.  Divine 
hours  he  had  spent  among  the  trees!  The 
tender,  harmonious  impressions  he  gathered 
from  them  were  so  infinitely  superior  to  the 
vain  cackle  of  drawing-rooms.  Here  there 
might  be  an  occasional  report  from  a  broken 
branch,  the  barking  of  a  dog,  the  creaking 
of  a  cart  in  the  distance  .  .  .  nothing  more! 
No  voices  of  men  broke  the  beneficent  silence. 
Amongst  his  present  surroundings,  the 
recollection  of  human  countenances  took  on 
the  unreality  of  the  embryonic  forms  one  sees 
in  the  clouds,  and  by  a  curious  trick  of  fancy 
they  appeared  to  him  faded  and  brown,  like 
old  wood!  ...  Of  the  faces  he  had  met  in 
life,  few  were  unconnected  in  his  memory 
with  experiences  of  boredom  or  constraint. 
For  this  reason  he  genuinely  preferred  the 
solitude  and  simplicity  of  the  forest,  so  elo- 
quent of  Nature's  bounteous  mother-love,  so 
free  from  the  trivialities  and  meannesses  of 
human  intercourse. 

Suddenly    Lirot    barked    again,    sharply, 
urgently. 


THE  KEYNOTE  23 

"All  right!  All  right!  I'm  coming!" 
cried  Monsieur  des  Lourdines,  rousing  him- 
self from  his  dream. 

When  his  master  reached  him,  Lirot,  who 
was  pointing,  stopped  barking,  and  his  eyes 
narrowed  to  two  slits.  Monsieur  des  Lour- 
dines bent  down  and  picked  a  great  round  fat 
mushroom  from  between  the  dog's  paws. 

"That's  right,  old  boy;  now  find  me  an- 
other," he  said,  patting  him  on  the  head. 

He  turned  the  mushroom  over  and  over, 
examined  it  minutely,  cut  the  stalk  off  neatly 
with  his  knife,  breathed  away  the  earth  ad- 
hering to  the  skin  as  gently  as  if  he  had  been 
blowing  a  fly  from  the  cheek  of  a  child,  and 
slipped  it  into  his  game-bag. 

Then  he  began  searching  on  his  own  ac- 
count. 

Mushrooms  were  to  him  the  very  essence 
of  the  forest;  their  taste  was  reminiscent  of 
both  earth  and  tree.  There  were  plenty 
about  to-day;  a  week  of  rain  will  produce  a 
fine  crop. 

In  the  midst  of  his  search  he  remembered 
that  he  must  be  about  a  mile  and  a  quarter 
from  where  a  breech-tree  had  been  badly 
barked  a  few  days  before  by  a  cart-wheel. 
He  wished  to  inspect  the  amount  of  the  dam- 


24  THE  KEYNOTE 

age  again,  so,  after  gathering  a  goodly  store 
from  amongst  the  dead  leaves,  he  bent  his 
steps  in  the  required  direction. 

As  he  walked  he  searched  the  under- 
growth, and  when  Lirot  barked  he  went  to 
him.  It  must  be  admitted  that  his  training 
of  the  dog  as  a  mushroom  hunter  was  not  an 
unqualified  success:  Lirot  could  only  recog- 
nize three  varieties,  and  his  bark  usually  an- 
nounced which  of  the  three  he  had  found,  a 
genuine  mushroom,  a  pompion,  or  one  of 
those  little  whitish  auricles  that  smell  so 
strongly  of  flour.  Sometimes  it  turned  out 
that  the  good  little  fellow's  find  was  large  and 
brilliantly  coloured,  one  of  those  flaunting 
purple  and  gold  parasols  which  seem  made 
for  the  use  of  some  Lilliputian  fairy;  but 
when  this  happened,  he  got  a  good  scolding. 

The  road,  all  churned  up  by  farm-wag- 
gons, wound  its  way  through  the  woodland. 
A  wood-pigeon  flew  out  from  a  tree,  birds 
twittered  their  autumn  lilt,  occasionally  dart- 
ing away  with  a  strip  of  alder  left  over  by 
the  basket  makers,  in  their  tiny  beaks. 

Passing  through  a  glade  where  stacks  of 
withies  ready  peeled  lay  ranged  in  rows,  he 
found  two  wood-cutters  sitting  by  a  brush  fire. 


THE  KEYNOTE  25 

One  of  them  was  fanning  the  flames  with  his 
hat. 

"Hullo,  hullo!  Good  morning,  my  lads!" 
cried  Monsieur  des  Lourdines.  "Be  careful, 
won't  you,  or  you'll  be  setting  fire  to  the  for- 
est." 

"That's  all  right,  Master,"  replied  the 
elder  of  the  two,  a  gaunt,  sallow-faced,  red- 
headed fellow,  "we'll  take  care.  A  fire  clears 
away  the  shavings  and  warms  up  the  soup  too. 
Now  then,  Theophile,  put  it  on." 

"What  soup  have  you  got,  my  lads?  Cab- 
bage soup?" 

Theophile  grinned  and  glanced  at  his  mate. 
The  latter  answered  nothing,  but  picked  up 
the  wallet  which  lay  among  the  fagots  and 
pulled  out  of  it  a  fine  fat  bird,  ready  plucked. 

"There  you  are!"  he  said,  flashing  a  quick 
look  at  the  tops  of  the  trees. 

"Oh!  a  rook!" 

"Yes.  It's  a  fine  meaty  thing,  a  rook. 
But,  Master,"  added  Theophile,  with  a  sly 
wink,  "I  see  you  have  your  game-bag  with 
you.  Have  you  had  good  sport?  I  know 
there  is  a  hare  in  that  bottom  over  there,  near 
Chezines." 

"Now  then,  now  then,  Theophile,"  pro- 
tested Monsieur  des  Lourdines  good-humour- 


26  THE  KEYNOTE 

edly,  "you  must  have  your  joke.  You  know 
I  don't  destroy  hares,  and  that  I  do  more 
mushroom-gathering  than  shooting.  I  have 
found  a  few  this  morning.  Would  you  like 
some?" 

"Why,  bless  me,  it  isn't  a  bad  idea,  sir — 
eh,  Barbechat?  'Twould  give  the  soup  some 
kind  of  a  flavour." 

"Rather!" 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  opened  his  bag 
and  dropped  mushrooms  one  by  one  into  the 
blouse  Barbechat  held  out  to  him. 

A  low  wind  soughed  through  the  trees; 
tomtits  warbled  near  by,  the  fragrant  wood 
smoke  rose  under  the  rhythmical  flapping  of 
Theophile's  hat,  and  little  spurts  of  flame  be- 
gan to  crackle  with  a  homely  sound. 

*&.  &.  &.  &. 

y[z  yf?  7p  ^ 

"Goodness!  how  they  have  damaged  the 
poor  thing!"  growled  Monsieur  des  Lourd- 
ines indignantly  as  he  examined  the  beech-tree. 
"The  cart  must  have  dashed  into  it  corner- 
wise.     There  was  heaps  of  room,  too." 

His  gaze  travelled  over  the  tree,  resting 
pitifully  on  the  gaping  rent  in  its  side,  where 
insects  were  already  at  work.  Then,  from 
the  bag  at  his  side  he  took  a  tin  box,  dipped  a 


THE  KEYNOTE  27 

slender  brush  into  some  liquid  bees'  wax  and 
gently  dabbed  the  wound. 

"Down,  Lirot!  Leave  it  alone!"  he 
called  chidingly  to  the  dog  who  had  run  up  to 
investigate,  and  was  sniffing  at  the  sweet, 
sticky  streaks.  "It's  not  for  you,  I  tell  you. 
Down !  There  my  poor  old  boy  .  .  .  just  an- 
other touch  in  this  corner  .  .  .  and  one  here 
.  .  .  there  then,  perhaps  you'll  last  your  time, 
after  all,  poor  old  chap." 

Meanwhile  the  fog  had  lifted.  The  sun 
glowed  crimson  through  the  trees.  The  rooks 
had  not  returned  from  the  valley.  Though 
the  afternoon  was  not  yet  spent,  the  indefin- 
able hush  of  approaching  evening  could  al- 
ready be  discerned  by  the  loving  eye  of 
Monsieur  des  Lourdines.  He  knew  the  mo- 
ment when  the  robin  red-breast  lowers  his 
song  and  retires  into  the  thicket,  when  the 
breeze  whispers  a  good-night  among  the 
leaves,  and  the  light  grows  faint  and  melan- 
choly. 

The  game-bag  was  full,  and  judging  by  its 
weight,  might  have  contained  two  hares  at 
least;  no  sportsman  returning  home  after  a 
successful    day's    shooting    could    have    felt 


28  THE  KEYNOTE 

prouder  or  cheerier  than  did  Monsieur  des 
Lourdines. 

He  scraped  the  soles  of  his  boots  with  his 
spud,  to  clear  them  of  the  lumps  of  earth  and 
leaves  and  chestnut-peel  adhering  to  them. 

His  thoughts  wandered  back  to  the  wood- 
men. "Lucky  fellows!"  he  ruminated. 
"That's  real  happiness!"  This  was  one  of 
his  favourite  remarks.  He  would  make  it  at 
sight  of  a  weaver  working  cosily  at  his  hand- 
loom  by  the  fire-side,  or  of  a  chair-mender  in 
his  thatched  cottage;  always:  "Lucky  chap! 
that's  what  I  call  happiness!" 

A  skurry  of  rain  passed  over  the  forest;  the 
birches  quivered  in  the  sudden  breeze;  a  rosy 
glow  outlined  the  gauntness  of  a  dead  oak 
tree.  He  stood  watching  it  all  and  enjoying 
the  touch  of  the  moist  wind  on  his  brow  and 
of  the  damp  earth  at  his  feet. 

"Death  .  .  .  death  ..."  he  reflected. 
"When  trees  die  they  remain  standing.  Per- 
haps they  even  retain  some  consciousness  of 
outside  influences;  but  we  poor  devils!  We 
never  see  or  hear  again.  Well,  well,  I  sup- 
pose I'm  good  for  another  twenty  years.  I 
wonder!  Am  I  good  for  another  twenty 
years?" 

He  sauntered  along  a  stony  path,  his  iron- 


THE  KEYNOTE  29 

shod  boots  ringing  on  the  rocky  surface,  their 
tops  brushed  by  the  wet  broom  and  bracken. 
A  weazel  darted  across ;  Lirot  was  after  it  in 
a  second. 

"To  heel,  Lirot!"  he  shouted.  "Your 
business  is  to  hunt  mushrooms.  Don't  you 
forget  it!" 

He  held  the  barking  dog  tight  by  the  collar 
till  the  little  fugitive  disappeared  into  a  hole 
in  the  bank.  Then  he  moved  on  again,  for 
dusk  was  now  falling  fast;  the  humid  gold  of 
the  evening  was  turning  dank  and  dim. 

In  a  deep  hollow  of  the  forest  stood  an  old 
thatched  house,  whence  floated  a  thin  streak 
of  bluish  smoke.  Monsieur  des  Lourdines 
never  passed  along  the  slope  above  without 
gazing  thoughtfully  down  at  this  "Charvin- 
iere,"  a  small  farm  which  had  belonged  to 
Petit-Fougeray  for  four  generations.  His 
parents  had  left  him  there  as  an  infant  when 
they  emigrated,  and  he  had  remained  in  the 
care  of  the  farmer  and  his  wife  until  he  went 
to  college. 

His  recollections  of  those  sunny  days  when 
his  speech  had  been  as  that  of  his  little  peas- 
ant play-fellows,  were  among  the  most  ex- 
quisite of  his  life.      A  host  of  trivial  scrapes 


30  THE  KEYNOTE 

and  childish  naughtinesses  rose  unbidden  to  his 
mind  and  brought  a  smile  to  his  lips;  but  the 
picture  that  dwelt  most  constantly  in  his  mem- 
ory was  of  great  wide  fields  of  rape-seed 
stretching  yellow,  oh,  so  yellow,  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  reach.  He  could  see  himself  stand- 
ing, a  tiny  boy  in  a  blouse,  gazing  delighted, 
dazzled,  motionless.  The  bliss  of  the  sight 
was  printed  deep  on  his  brain  and  the  re- 
membrance of  Charviniere  was  inextricably 
mixed  with  that  of  wide  fields  of  rape-seed 
shining  yellow  as  gold  away  into  the  far  dis- 
tance. 

Unfortunately  these  happy  memories  had 
been  clouded  by  sorrow  in  the  last  few  years. 
This  evening,  as  his  gaze  fell  upon  the  peace- 
ful thread  of  smoke  floating  blue  above  the 
woods,  he  stood  dreaming  of  his  son  .  .  .  the 
son  who  had  deserted  the  home  of  his  fathers 
to  live  in  Paris,  and  who  so  seldom  wrote  or 
gave  any  sign  of  life. 

It  was  a  sad  story. 

The  sight  of  Charviniere  never  failed  to 
revive  the  full  bitterness  of  it.  Yet  he  could 
not  keep  away!  The  child  had  come  after 
two  years  of  marriage.  Oh  the  joy,  the  love, 
it   had   brought   in    its   little   hands!     How 


THE  KEYNOTE  31 

proud  its  parents  had  been!  The  mother 
even  more  so  than  the  father  .  .  .  she  was 
dazed  with  the  glory  of  having  brought  a 
man-child  into  the  world!  Unreasoning 
tenderness,  foolish  indulgence,  were  lavished 
upon  the  little  heir;  nothing  seemed  too  deli- 
cate for  his  pampered  appetite,  too  precious 
for  his  lordly  acceptance;  to  cross  him  in  the 
mildest  way  would  have  been  the  blackest  of 
crimes. 

One  day,  for  instance,  there  was  asparagus 
for  dinner. 

"Me  want  'paragus,"  clamoured  Anthime. 

"^jparagus,"  corrected  his  mother.  "You 
must  say  asparagus,  or  you  can't  have  any." 

"Me  want  'paragus." 

"Listen,  sonny.  When  everybody  else  has 
been  helped,  you  shall  have  some,  if  you  pro- 
nounce the  word  properly.  Well,  little 
man?" 

"Me  want  'paragus,"  giggled  Anthime, 
naughtily. 

His  mother  laughed  and  gave  him  a  large 
helping. 

College  was  considered  too  rough  for  such 
a  tender  plant,  so  a  mild  young  priest  was  in- 
stalled as  his  tutor. 

Anthime  was  spoilt  and  over-dressed;   at 


32  THE  KEYNOTE 

ten  years  old  he  had  silken  under-clothing 
and  the  smartest  of  manly  suits — his  every 
whim  was  indulged,  his  fancies  consulted;  he 
had  not  even  the  opportunity  of  developing 
a  temper.  It  must  be  admitted  that  he  was 
a  charming  boy,  merry,  good-humoured, 
generous  to  a  fault;  but  the  deferential  meek- 
ness of  his  tutor  and  the  foolish  encourage- 
ment of  his  mother  fostered  his  natural  self- 
indulgence  and  love  of  pleasure  to  an 
alarming  extent.  No  one  noticed  his  faults. 
His  position  as  the  heir  and  only  child  made 
every  indulgence  seem  lawful.  Nothing  he 
asked  for  was  refused ;  money  flowed  like  wa- 
ter through  his  fingers. 

At  fifteen  he  was  given  a  horse  and  buggy; 
many  and  narrow  were  his  escapes  from 
breaking  his  neck  and  other  people's.  One 
day  he  was  giving  a  lift  to  the  parish  priest; 
he  drove  so  rashly  that  he  upset  the  poor  man 
into  a  ditch  and  broke  three  of  his  fingers  for 
him.  He  made  amends  by  sending  a  five- 
pound  note  for  the  poor,  as  soon  as  he  got 
home.  At  twenty  he  begged  for  a  thorough- 
bred, and  was  at  once  given  "Comte  Caradec," 
by  "Prince  Caradec,"  a  celebrated  English 
race-horse,  at  a  cost  of  two  thousand  pounds. 

Anthime  rode  him,  and  won  a  great  many 


THE  KEYNOTE  33 

races.  This  was  his  initiation  into  gay  life. 
With  the  friends  he  made  on  the  turf  he  en- 
tered on  a  career  of  dissipation.  One  day 
he  came  back  from  Poitiers  with  his  pockets 
full  of  gold  won  at  the  gaming  tables.  He 
walked  about  among  the  servants  and  peas- 
ants, saying,  "Help  yourselves,  boys,  there's 
plenty  more  where  that  came  from." 

Five  years  later,  his  father  was  called  upon 
to  pay  eight  thousand  pounds'  worth  of  debts. 

There  was  a  frightful  scene.  It  was  the 
first  time  Monsieur  des  Lourdines  had  ever 
been  seen  in  a  rage.  Madame  des  Lourdines 
was  so  terrified  that  she  shut  herself  up  in  a 
cupboard. 

Shortly  afterwards  Anthime,  who  posed  as 
the  injured  party  and  pretended  his  feelings 
had  been  lacerated  by  his  father's  straight 
speaking,  shook  the  dust  of  Petit-Fougeray 
from  his  feet,  and  settled  in  Paris  on  an  allow- 
ance of  five  hundred  pounds  a  year. 

Madame  des  Lourdines  broke  down  com- 
pletely under  these  trials;  a  stroke  of  paral- 
ysis laid  her  low;  her  body  grew  to  an 
enormous  size,  and  she  never  regained  the  full 
use  of  her  limbs. 

Both  parents  suffered  inexpressibly.  The 
dreary   days   passed   by   in    gloomy   silence. 


34  THE  KEYNOTE 

The  shadow  of  the  absent  one  stood  ever  be- 
tween them.  His  name  was  never  mentioned. 
Legitimate  pride  had  been  betrayed,  tender 
love  deceived,  the  hopes  of  years  dragged  in 
the  dust.  The  wounds  thus  inflicted  would 
not  bear  discussion. 

Yet  the  mother  did  not  lose  hope;  she  had 
never  brought  herself  to  believe  in  her  son's 
conscious  guilt.  Her  blind  devotion  was  so 
ingenious  in  finding  excuses  for  his  conduct 
that  little  by  little  her  husband,  dreading  the 
effect  of  contradiction  on  one  whose  health 
was  so  precarious,  almost  grew  to  acquiesce  in 
her  view.  Both  were  at  one  in  their  ardent 
desire  to  see  Anthime  come  home,  marry,  and 
take  up  the  position  open  to  him  by  right  of 
birth  and  fortune;  but  though  Monsieur  des 
Lourdines  allowed  his  thoughts  to  dwell  on 
this  happy  termination  of  the  family  trouble 
he  had  but  little  faith  in  its  probability. 

On  the  evening  in  question  he  stood  once 
more  gazing  sadly  at  the  smoke  of  Charviniere 
where,  from  pure  sentiment,  he  had  insisted 
on  sending  Anthime  to  nurse.  He  watched 
the  yellowing  poplars  which  bordered  the 
lane,  and  saw,  rather  than  heard,  the  rustling 
of  their  leaves:  a  well-rope  creaked,  a  white 
cap  moved  in  the  direction  of  the  cattle-shed. 


THE  KEYNOTE  35 

He  dreamed  that  the  clock  had  moved  back 
thirty  years,  and  that  he  would  presently  hear 
a  laughing  treble  voice  pierce  the  evening 
air  with  its  shrill  sweetness. 

But  nothing  of  the  sort  rewarded  his  ex- 
pectant ear.  Instead,  he  became  aware  of  the 
sound  of  hoofs  clattering  on  the  gravel  below; 
slowly  and  gravely  an  old  white  horse  came 
into  view,  trudging  alone,  under  a  load  of 
sacks  of  flour. 

The  sight  of  him  relieved  the  tension  of 
Monsieur  des  Lourdines'  mind;  he  moved 
downward  with  alacrity,  and  fell  to  patting 
the  animal. 

The  old  white  nag  from  the  mill  of  La 
Bigne  made  the  round  of  the  villages  thus 
every  Monday,  either  collecting  sacks  of 
wheat  or  delivering  loads  of  freshly  ground 
flour.  He  ambled  sedately  ahead  of  his  mas- 
ter, knowing  full  well  the  sequence  of  the 
round.  If  the  miller,  beguiled  by  some  bit 
of  gossip,  forgot  to  give  him  the  signal  to 
stop,  the  horse  went  quietly  on  and  the  miller 
would  presently  be  met  panting  in  pursuit, 
waving  his  whip  and  calling. 

Thus  it  happened  on  this  occasion.  A 
loud    cracking   of    the   whip    sounded    from 


36  THE  KEYNOTE 

among  the  chestnuts,  and  Suire  ran  up,  face 
and  blouse  white  with  flour,  the  regulation 
miller's  cap  with  its  hanging  tassel  on  his  head 
and  a  toothless  grin  on  his  flat  countenance. 

"Good  morning,  Master." 

"Good  morning,  Suire.  Where  are  you 
from  now?" 

The  miller  clapped  his  heavy  hand  on  one 
of  the  sacks,  raising  a  cloud  of  dust  from  the 
wheat,  and  replied: 

"From  La  Taupinaie,  where  I  got  this  fine 
bag  of  grain;  that  one  comes  from  Purdeau 
and  the  others  from  Fouchaut,  all  farms  of 
yours,  Master." 

"Oh,  you've  been  to  Fouchaut?  The 
wheat  is  fine  there  this  year,  eh?" 

"By  Jove!  it  does  weigh,  sir!" 

"Well,  as  you  are  on  your  way  back  to  the 
mill,"  continued  Monsieur  des  Lourdines, 
casting  a  farewell  glance  at  Charviniere,  "we 
may  as  well  go  along  together.  It's  all  on  my 
way  to  Fougeray." 

Suire  slung  his  whip  round  his  neck,  and 
the  two  moved  away,  skirting  the  edge  of  the 
forest  and  talking  as  they  walked.  On  their 
left  lay  the  ploughed  land,  dotted  here  and 
there  with  scarecrows,  their  rags  fluttering  in 
the  light  evening  breeze;  and  in  front  of  them 


THE  KEYNOTE  37 

the  little  white  horse  jogged  soberly  on,  be- 
neath the  shadows  of  the  overhanging 
branches,  his  hoofs  beating  a  rhythmic  tune 
on  the  stones  of  the  lane,  his  head,  tail,  and 
sacks  swinging  to  his  ambling  gait. 

"What  do  you  say  to  a  drop  of  comfort, 
sir?"  suggested  Suire,  as  they  approached  his 
house. 

The  mill  was  placed  on  a  height  among  the 
trees,  and  dominated  the  whole  forest;  its 
sails,  silenced  now  for  the  night,  stood  out 
against  their  background  of  sky  like  the  arms 
of  a  huge  cross. 

"It's  a  long  time  since  you  have  been  un- 
der our  roof,  Master,"  continued  Suire,  point- 
ing out  recent  improvements,  hen-roosts, 
pigeon-houses,  cartsheds,  nestling  below  the 
mill.  "What  do  you  think  of  that?  I  built 
it  all  with  my  own  hands." 

"What,  the  walls  too?" 

"Rather!  All  those  walls.  It  was  just  a 
question  of  material,  nothing  more.  Look 
at  these  flints;  there  is  a  quarry  close  by.  I 
bought  it  for  eight  pounds.  I  paid  two 
pounds  on  account.  I  get  stone  from  it  every 
day — you  can  reckon  it  out  for  yourself;  a 
penny  per  square  yard.  I  have  worked  forty 
already." 


38  THE  KEYNOTE 

While  they  talked,  Suire's  wife  had  un- 
harnessed the  horse.  She  now  stood,  in  her 
black  peasant's  hood,  holding  the  horse's 
forelock,  watching  them  with  strange,  vacant 
eyes,  and  laughing  uncannily  without  sound. 
Presently  she  caught  Monsieur  des  Lourdines' 
eye,  touched  her  forehead  with  her  fore- 
finger, and,  with  a  nod  in  the  direction  of 
her  husband,  winked,  as  who  should  say: 
"You  mustn't  listen  to  him  ...  if  you 
do  .  .  ." 

"But,"  proceeded  Suire,  "after  the  pur- 
chase was  concluded,  old  Gaffer  Pagis  came 
to  me  and  pretended  that  he  held  a  mortgage 
on  half  the  property.  He  insisted  the  sale 
was  void  and  that  he  would  have  the  law  of 
me.  'Go  on,'  I  said,  'you  old  joker.  There 
isn't  a  mortgage  or  anything  else — I  know 
what  you're  after!'  So  to-morrow,  as  it's 
fair-day  at  Poitiers,  we  shall  both  go  before 
the  magistrate,  and  I  shall  say:  'Now  then, 
I've  bought  the  piece  of  ground  and  paid  for 
it — that's  the  law,  isn't  it?'  I  shall  tell  him 
that,  'I've  paid,  I've  paid,  I've  paid' I" 

Suire  mumbled  the  words  with  increasing 
vehemence. 

"Now,  Master,  come  to  the  store-room. 
I've  got  some  nice  sweet  wine  of  this  year's 


THE  KEYNOTE  39 

making.  Look  there,  look  at  my  little  wild 
friend!" 

"What  wild  friend?" 

"Why,  there,  under  the  wire  netting.  I 
bagged  him  in  a  furrow  when  he  was  a  young- 
ster." 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  looked,  and  in  a 
wired  enclosure  saw  a  little  wild  rabbit 
bounding  about  like  an  indiarubber  ball. 
Monsieur  des  Lourdines  had  to  call  Lirot  off. 

They  drank  in  the  store-room  and  then 
went  to  the  garden  to  inspect  the  flower-beds, 
the  hedges  Suire  had  made,  the  apple-tree 
which  had  produced  apples  enough  to  fill  five 
hogsheads. 

"He's  a  conscientious  old  beggar,  that  tree." 
Then  he  lowered  his  voice  and  pointed  with 
his  finger:  "D'you  see  those  brambles?  a 
hare  comes  out  of  a  hole  there  every  morn- 
ing, makes  hay  of  my  flower-beds  and  goes 
off  by  way  of  the  wattle-hedge."  The  miller 
threw  himself  on  his  stomach  with  his  face 
to  the  earth.  "It's  too  dark  for  you  to  see 
now,  otherwise  I  should  have  shown  you  his 
trail.  But  that's  the  way  he  comes  and  goes, 
sure  enough.     Do  you  see  the  hole?" 

He  put  his  hand  gently  into  it. 

"Ha!    What  did  I  tell  you,  Master?" 


40  THE  KEYNOTE 

He  withdrew  it,  holding  a  little  bit  of  fluff 
in  his  fat  fingers  and  blew  it  away. 

"All  right,  my  fine  gentleman!  When  I've 
had  my  say  with  the  magistrate  to-morrow, 
I  shall  come  back  and  settle  your  hash  for  you ! 
But  I  see  you  have  your  game-bag  with  you, 
Master.     Had  any  sport?" 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  opened  the  bag 
and  the  miller  peeped  in. 

"My  word,  they're  a  little  bit  of  all 
right!" 

"Hold  out  your  blouse!" 

While  Suire  expressed  his  thanks,  Mon- 
sieur des  Lourdines  was  saying  to  himself: 
"Lucky  chap,  Suire!     That's  a  happy  man!" 

But  it  was  time  to  start  homeward.  He 
held  out  his  hand  and  Suire  grasped  and 
swung  it  ponderously  to  and  fro. 

"Good  night,  Suire." 

The  good  wife  stood  under  the  porch  and 
watched  him  pass,  still  laughing  dumbly  and 
tapping  her  forehead  with  her  finger: 

"Don't  you  listen  to  him,  sir  .  .  .  because 
if  you  do  .  .  ." 

The  twilight  was  nearly  over.  There  re- 
mained of  it  only  a  violet  tinge,  spread  over 
the  face  of  the  heavens.     A  few  rain-clouds 


THE  KEYNOTE  41 

floated,  darkly  blue,  and  in  the  mist  beyond 
them  lay  Charviniere.  Further  off  still,  the 
forest  reared  its  black  crest. 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  tramped  steadily 
through  the  woods  in  darkness  so  opaque  that 
boughs  could  no  longer  be  distinguished  from 
leaves.  The  dawdle  at  the  miller's  had 
chilled  him  and  stiffened  his  muscles;  his 
limbs  felt  heavy.  But  his  thoughts,  cheered 
by  a  day  in  the  open,  returned  to  the  mill  at 
Bigne.  The  leaves  whispered  metallically. 
He  hurried,  and  Lirot  bounded  like  a  wolf 
among  the  trunks. 


CHAPTER  III 

HE  entered  the  avenue  between  the 
two  tumble-down  lodges  which 
marked  the  approach  to  the  chateau. 

The  moon  floated  pale  and  serene  above 
clouds  like  wool  bordered  with  flame.  The 
sky  was  dappled  white,  fading  into  the  soft 
blue  of  old  brocade.  Presently  the  sloping 
roof  of  the  chateau,  silvered  by  the  argent 
light  of  the  moon,  emerged  from  the  sur- 
rounding obscurity. 

Madame  des  Lourdines'  room  was  brightly 
illuminated,  as  usual;  the  flame  shone  mellow 
through  the  diamond  panes. 

The  master  of  the  house  could  never  rid 
himself  of  a  certain  anxiety  as  to  what  might 
have  happened,  when  he  returned  after  an  ab- 
sence of  any  length;  he  feared  to  be  met  by 
old  Perrine  on  the  door-step  with  the  news 
of  another  seizure.  Sometimes  he  even  went 
so  far  as  to  remain  at  home  all  day,  but  this 
was  a  bootless  privation;  it  did  no  good  either 
to  the  invalid  or  to  himself. 

42 


THE  KEYNOTE  43 

But  to-night  Petit-Fougeray  lay  in  the 
slumberous  lethargy  of  its  own  aged  brown 
bricks.  The  house  was  deceptive.  It  was 
not  impressive  from  outside,  but  its  interior 
revealed  vast  proportions.  It  was  far  too  big 
for  its  few  inhabitants,  consisting  of  the 
master,  mistress,  and  four  servants.  There- 
fore, only  the  left  wing  was  inhabited.  The 
right  was  entirely  deserted.  A  long,  narrow 
corridor  gave  access  to  a  suite  of  spacious 
apartments,  pannelled  throughout  with  beauti- 
ful wood  carvings,  but  empty  of  furniture. 
None  of  these  rooms  were  put  to  their 
legitimate  use.  One  was  stacked  with  hay; 
Celestin  kept  the  grain  for  the  fowls  in  an- 
other; but  in  the  third,  which  at  some  former 
period  had  probably  served  as  a  billiard-room, 
there  was  only  an  old  sieve  on  a  heap  of 
barley;  both  had  probably  lain  there,  forgot- 
ten, for  years.  Dust  had  accumulated  every- 
where. The  atmosphere  of  the  rooms  was 
icy  and  charged  with  the  musty  odour  of 
mouldy  hay  and  dry-rot;  the  cocoons  of  in- 
sects hung  fluttering  from  the  ceilings,  and 
spiders  had  spun  webs  enough  to  furnish  all 
the  brides  of  the  country-side  with  wedding 
veils. 

The    chapel    was    in    ruins.     Every   year's 


44  THE  KEYNOTE 

passage  was  marked  by  some  additional  dam- 
age ;  die  steps  had  crumbled,  one  by  one ;  there 
was  a  breach  in  the  outer  wall  near  the 
tribune,  and  another  in  the  roof,  whence  frag- 
ments of  lath  and  rotten  slate  dropped  and 
piled  themselves  on  the  pavement  below.  A 
bough  of  the  fig-tree  outside  had  elbowed  its 
way  through  one  of  the  Gothic  windows  and 
flaunted  its  greenery  amidst  the  general  de- 
cay. The  altar  had  fallen  slantingly  across 
a  heap  of  planks  and  worm-eaten  orange- 
boxes,  and  its  gilded  tabernacle  lay  propped 
between  two  peeling  angels,  whose  stiff 
fingers  still  maintained  a  prayerful  attitude 
beneath  their  scaly  chins. 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  went  straight  to 
the  kitchen,  whence  proceeded  the  sound  of 
blows  from  Perrine's  meat-chopper. 

"How  is  Madame?" 

"God  is  still  merciful,  Master." 

Estelle,  Madame  des  Lourdines'  little 
maid,  sat  in  the  light  of  the  lamp,  working 
at  some  fine  sewing  which  covered  her  lap 
and  fell  to  the  floor.  Between  the  two 
women,  on  a  bench  against  the  wall,  sat  a 
young  fellow  from  a  neighbouring  village,  a 
hand-loom   worker  by  trade,   who   came   in 


THE  KEYNOTE  45 

regularly  to  spend  the  evening  with  them. 
Later,  he  would  return  home  and  could  be 
heard  singing,  far  into  the  night,  while  he 
sorted  his  bobbins. 

"Here  are  the  mushrooms;  what  have  you 
cooked  for  Madame  to-night?" 

"A  pasty  of  partridges,  Master." 

Madame  des  Lourdines  was  particular 
about  her  meals;  she  insisted  upon  being  fed 
with  tasty  dishes  and  rich  sauces. 

Some  underlinen  was  airing  before  the 
fire;  the  stock-pot  simmered  amidst  the 
flames.  Monsieur  des  Lourdines  drew 
nearer  to  the  warmth,  took  off  his  muddy 
boots,  put  on  a  pair  of  slippers,  and  stood  lean- 
ing against  the  chimney-piece  watching 
Perrine  prepare  his  nightly  repast  of  cabbage 
soup  and  new-laid  eggs. 

He  was  fond  of  dawdling  in  the  kitchen, 
and  never  failed  to  spend  a  few  moments  there 
on  his  return  from  a  country  walk.  He  liked 
the  scent  of  smoke  and  baking  bread  and  boil- 
ing milk.  The  soft  glow  of  the  lamps 
lighted  up  the  yellow-washed  walls  and  shin- 
ing coppers;  stacks  of  wood  from  his  own 
farms  were  spread  to  dry  at  the  chimney- 
corner.  His  gaze  rested  affectionately  on  the 
ancient  clock  in  the  corner,  with  its  grotesque 


46  THE  KEYNOTE 

paintings  and  swinging  pendulum,  on  the 
old  copper  candle-sticks,  all  battered  and  bent, 
the  three  guns  hanging  from  the  wall;  they 
were  full  of  associations,  and  held  in  his  esti- 
mation a  definite  place  in  the  order  of  things 
.  .  .  they  were  almost  sentient  beings  and  had 
grown  old  in  his  service. 

Another  object  of  interest  to  him  was  a 
smoke-blackened  print  above  the  hearth.  It 
represented  an  episode  in  the  crossing  of  the 
Beresina:  an  attack  on  some  voltigeurs  by  a 
company  of  Cossacks.  The  features  of  the 
youthful  officer  in  command  bore  some  like- 
ness to  those  of  Anthime! 

He  lingered  somewhat  longer  than  usual 
on  this  evening,  among  the  faggots  and  the 
clock  and  the  old  landmarks,  for  he  dreaded 
his  wife's  conversation.  He  knew  she  would 
talk  to  him  about  the  elm,  and  point  out  how 
right  she  had  been  to  insist  on  its  removal, 
and  what  an  improvement  its  absence  had  ef- 
fected in  the  lighting  of  her  apartments.  He 
felt  sore  on  the  subject  and  did  not  want  it 
re-opened. 

At  length,  when  his  meal  was  concluded, 
he  went  upstairs,  stepping  lightly  and  holding 
the  rickety  banister  gingerly. 

On  the  threshold  his  nostrils  were  assailed 


THE  KEYNOTE  47 

by  the  familiar  odour  of  spices  and  eau-de- 
Cologne.  The  decorations  of  the  room  were 
carried  out  in  red  and  gold;  the  thousand 
and  one  silver  and  china  knick-knacks  with 
which  it  was  crammed  were  reflected  in  vari- 
ous mirrors.  Madame  des  Lourdines  had  a 
passion  for  crimson;  even  her  candles  were 
crimson.  She  was  busy  with  Frederic  at  the 
moment,  giving  him  instructions  for  the  mor- 
row's purchases  at  Poitiers.  The  journey 
was  made  once  a  fortnight  on  the  market-day, 
but  as  the  distance  was  ninety  miles  there  and 
back,  the  coachman  put  up  the  horse  and 
buggy  at  an  inn  and  spent  the  night  in  the 
town,  returning  the  following  day. 

"You  are  sure  you  understand,  Frederic?" 

"Yes,  Madame." 

A  handful  of  gold  pieces  glittered  in  her 
fat,  manicured  hands.  Little  heaps  of  coins 
were  arranged  in  a  row  on  the  marqueterie 
table  in  front  of  her. 

She  always  sat  in  the  same  corner  of  the 
room,  close  to  the  window,  under  the  shadow 
of  a  plush  curtain. 

She  nodded  in  a  preoccupied  manner  in  an- 
swer to  her  husband's  greeting;  he  crept  si- 
lently over  to  the  casement  and  sat  down  be- 
side it. 


48  THE  KEYNOTE 

Madame  des  Lourdines  was  a  powerfully 
built  woman;  she  had  never  been  handsome. 
Her  hair  waved  back  from  the  temples  and 
was  covered  with  a  black  lace  fichu.  Her 
long  narrow  face,  though  finely  modelled,  was 
disfigured  by  the  violet  hue  of  the  flesh, 
which  showed  through  its  thick  coating  of 
powder;  the  chin  and  neck  fell  in  flaccid 
folds.  She  addressed  the  coachman  in  jerky 
tones,  and  a  thickened  utterance,  and  her 
beady  black  eyes  seemed  to  pierce  through 
him  while  she  impressed  upon  him  the  de- 
tails of  the  errands  he  was  to  perform. 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  listened  in  silence 
and  bent  upon  Frederic  much  the  same  gaze 
as  that  with  which  he  favoured  the  old  furni- 
ture in  the  kitchen. 

Frederic  was  no  longer  young,  but  he  still 
carried  himself  upright  and  his  portly  figure 
made  a  goodly  appearance  on  the  box-seat  of 
his  carriage.  There  were  girls  in  the  village 
who  ogled  him  in  vain,  and  would  have  been 
proud  to  own  such  a  personable  husband;  but 
he,  fearing  that  marriage  would  separate  him 
from  his  master  and  his  horses,  passed  them 
by  and  ignored  their  advances  with  the  im- 
passability  of  a  church  steeple  among  the 
swallows. 


THE  KEYNOTE  49 

"Here's  the  list,  Frederic.  Don't  lose  it; 
and  four  pounds  for  the  commissions."  She 
leant  forward  with  infinite  difficulty  to  hand 
him  the  money.  "Don't  fail  to  pay  Dr.  Lan- 
der's bill;  twenty  pounds;  here  is  the  cheque. 
Now  pay  attention!  You  are  to  ask  him  to 
come  .  .  .  no,  wait  .  .  ."  She  paused  for  a 
moment.  "No,  say  nothing  about  that.  I 
will  write." 

She  stared  hard  at  the  man,  in  the  effort 
to  collect  her  thoughts;  for  she  prided  her- 
self on  having  preserved  the  clearness  of  her 
brain  throughout  her  physical  decline;  it 
would  have  been  a  bitter  mortification  to  her 
to  be  convicted  of  forgetfulness. 

"Ha!"  she  exclaimed  suddenly. 

She  pressed  her  hands  on  the  arms  of  her 
chair  and  raised  herself  laboriously,  pushing 
the  table  from  her  with  a  curious  wriggle  of 
one  hip.  She  walked  forward.  The  floor- 
ing creaked  under  the  weight  of  her  swaying 
bulk.  She  moved  painfully,  with  nervous 
contractions  of  the  soft  fat  fingers  she  could 
no  longer  clench.  From  a  cupboard  in  the 
wall  she  drew  a  black  silk  bodice. 

"There!  You  must  go  to  Mademoiselle 
Godeau  and  return  this  bodice  to  her.  It 
does  not  fit  at  all.     She  is  to  let  it  out  at  the 


50  THE  KEYNOTE 

arm-holes  or  else  make  me  another.  I  don't 
care  which,  but  she  must  send  me  something 
that  doesn't  pin  my  arms  to  my  sides!  I  can't 
move  in  this  one." 

Frederic  put  out  his  hand. 

"Wait!  Are  your  hands  clean?  I  had 
better  pack  it  up.  Is  there  an  old  newspaper 
anywhere  about?  Look,  there  is  one  on  the 
chimney-piece.  No,  no,  that  is  your  Consti- 
tutionnel,  Timothee.     It  has  just  come." 

"You  can  have  it  if  you  like,  Emilie." 

"Really?  Then  give  it  to  me,  Frederic. 
Oh,  by  the  way,  Timothee,"  she  continued,  un- 
folding the  paper,  "a  letter  came  for  you  at 
the  same  time.  It  is  there,  on  the  chimney- 
piece." 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  fetched  the  letter. 
It  was  addressed  to  Monsieur  Le  Comte  des 
Lourdines.  He  made  a  wry  face,  for  he  dis- 
liked being  addressed  by  a  title  he  did  not 
possess;  besides,  letters  in  an  unfamiliar  hand- 
writing inspired  him  with  more  mistrust  than 
curiosity.  He  was  in  no  hurry  to  read  them. 
He  very  often  thrust  them  unopened  into  his 
pocket,  one  after  the  other,  until  some  fine 
day  he  nerved  himself  to  break  the  seals  and 
wade  through  the  accumulation. 

This  one  was  treated  in  the  same  fashion. 


THE  KEYNOTE  51 

"Timothee,"  asked  Madame  des  Lourdines, 
"are  you  wanting  anything  from  Poi- 
tiers?" 

"No,  thank  you,  Emilie — no — I  can't  think 
of  anything." 

She  gave  a  sign  of  dismissal  to  Frederic, 
who  pulled  his  forelock  in  acknowledgement 
before  swinging  round,  presenting  to  view  his 
red  bull-neck  and  the  grizzled  locks  curling 
low  over  it. 

She  made  her  slow,  painful  way  back  to 
her  chair  and  sank  into  it  panting  and  closing 
her  eyes.  It  was  no  joke  to  direct  a  whole 
household  from  her  invalid  chair. 

"You  attempt  too  much,  you  poor  dear." 

"No,  no,  Timothee,  don't  you  worry. 
Thank  Heaven  I  have  a  good  head.  But 
have  you  remembered  to  give  Celestin  in- 
structions about  the  cow  he  is  to  buy?" 

"Yes.  I  said  to  him:  You  are  to  choose 
a  roan  cow.  Madame  particularly  wishes 
it.'  " 

"That's  right."  She  glanced  towards  the 
window.  "The  men  worked  at  the  tree  un- 
til nightfall.  They  have  chopped  off  all  the 
branches.  That  is  a  good  job  done!  Now 
I  shall  not  have  to  strain  my  eyes,  working 
in  the  dark,  every  afternoon." 


52  THE  KEYNOTE 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  broke  in  hur- 
riedly— 

"All  right,  all  right,  fimilie!  I'm  glad 
you're  pleased,"  and  he  scratched  his  hand 
nervously. 

She  was  silent;  her  mouth  broadened  into 
a  smile. 

"I  had  a  letter  to-day,  Timothee,  from 
Madame  Espic." 

"Madame  Espic?"  he  repeated. 

"Yes;  she  talks  a  great  deal  about  her 
daughter — " 

"Her  daughter?"  he  questioned  again. 

"Yes,  I  tell  you,  her  daughter.  Now 
listen,  Timothee,  the  more  I  think  about  it — 
mind  you,  the  girl  will  have  a  great  deal  of 
money — the  more  convinced  I  feel  that  we 
ought  to  try  and  manage  something  for  An- 
thime  in  that  quarter!" 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  had  already  had 
experience  of  his  wife's  efforts  at  matchmak- 
ing on  her  son's  behalf.  Although  he  was 
not  personally  familiar  with  Paris  life,  he 
had  sufficient  imagination  to  guess  that  it 
would  not  be  exactly  easy  to  detach  a  young 
man  from  its  fascinations  for  the  sake  of  a 
marriage  with  an  unknown  bride  in  the  coun- 


THE  KEYNOTE  53 

try.  He  did  not  therefore  feel  very  sanguine 
of  her  success. 

"What  do  you  think  of  doing,  Emilie?" 
he  questioned  rather  wearily. 

She  replied:  "You  let  me  manage  by  my- 
self. You  are  not  clever  at  that  sort  of  thing. 
First  of  all,  you  don't  understand  your  own 
son,  Timothee,  you  never  did.  Now  in 
these  matters  one  has  to  be  very  tactful;  one 
must  know  how  to  make  people  do  just  what 
one  wants  without  their  being  aware  of  it; 
it  is  a  science  in  itself.  You  could  never  do 
anything  of  the  kind." 

"I  dare  say  not.  But  what  about  you,  my 
dear?     How  are  you  going  to  set  about  it?" 

"That's  simple  enough:  I  shall  do  a  little 
manoeuvring." 

"Manoeuvring!  Now,  I  think  it's  best  to 
go  straight  ahead  and  say  what  one  means." 

"May  be,  Timothee,  may  be;  but  just  leave 
it  all  to  me." 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  said  no  more. 
He  sat  ruminating,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor 
at  his  feet,  yet  seeing  nothing. 

A  few  minutes  later  he  retired  to  his  room. 
It  was   a   Spartan   apartment   of   four   bare 


54  THE  KEYNOTE 

walls;  its  sole  furniture  an  iron  bedstead,  a 
chair,  a  table,  and  a  cupboard. 

He  threw  off  his  coat  and  put  on  a  shabby 
old  brown  dressing-gown,  passed  his  hand 
dreamily  over  his  forehead,  pushing  back  the 
heavy  lock  of  grey  hair  which  hung  over  his 
tanned  forehead,  then  opened  the  cupboard, 
climbing  on  to  a  chair  and  lifted  from  its 
resting-place  among  a  pile  of  old  books  on 
the  top  shelf,  a  violin  case. 

He  opened  it  softly  and  carefully  lifted  out 
the  instrument.  It  was  a  beautiful  old  violin. 
He  swept  his  thumb  over  the  strings,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  tune  it;  then  polished  it  with  a  silk 
handkerchief  till  the  ruddy  wood  shone;  af- 
terwards the  bow  received  attention.  He 
worked  with  loving  care,  a  slight  smile  re- 
laxing his  features. 


CHAPTER  IVi 

ONE  of  the  recollections  most  often 
present  in  Monsieur  des  Lourdines' 
mind  was  that  of  Monsieur  Crouille- 
bois,  the  old  violin-master,  whose  custom  it 
had  been  in  those  remote  school-days  to 
await  his  pupil  twice  a  week  after  luncheon 
in  the  courtyard  outside  the  refectory.  He 
could  still  see  accurately  with  the  eyes  of 
memory  the  tall  figure  in  the  worn  buff  great- 
coat, from  the  pocket  of  which  a  yellow  ban- 
danna handkerchief  invariably  protruded. 
They  would  go  to  a  certain  class-room,  bare 
and  shabby  and  dirty,  but  with  "the  least  bad 
acoustic  properties,"  as  the  old  master  used 
to  declare  laughingly. 

"Now,  Monsieur  des  Lourdines,  let  us  be- 
gin. How  are  your  honoured  parents? 
What,  you  have  not  heard  from  them? 
Dear!  Dear!  Well,  we  will  go  over  that 
last  exercise,  if  you  please." 

His  parents,  or  rather  his  mother,  had  once 
written  to  the  Principal,  on  some  impulse, 

55 


5Q  THE  KEYNOTE 

and  said  that  young  Timothee  might  as  well 
take  violin  lessons — and  as  no  counter  order 
ever  followed,  young  des  Lourdines  remained 
Monsieur  Crouillebois'  pupil  during  the 
whole  of  his  school  days. 

Those  lessons  were  practically  the  only  ad- 
vantage he  ever  reaped  from  his  College 
course.  At  its  termination,  he  took  the  violin 
home  with  him,  beloved  companion  of  the 
only  happy  hours  of  his  boyhood. 

He  had  been  fifteen  years  away;  his  fa- 
ther and  mother  were  dead.  He  returned  to 
the  old  deserted  homestead;  explored  afresh 
the  scenes  of  his  childhood,  the  meadows 
within  whose  thick  hedges,  the  young  bulls 
grazed,  the  lanes,  plunged  in  the  everlasting 
obscurity  of  their  overhanging  trees,  the 
Charviniere  farm  with  its  fields  of  colza 
shining  yellow  as  far  as  eye  could  reach.  It 
was  a  happy,  happy  time;  his  violin  sang 
hymns  of  praise. 

It  sang  in  the  evenings,  after  long  days  of 
tramping  the  country,  or  drowsy  summer  af- 
ternoons idled  away  among  the  hay  and  the 
grasshoppers.  The  music  played  by  the  ex- 
pupil  of  Monsieur  Crouillebois  was  by  no 
means  limited  to  the  pieces  learnt  with  that 
estimable   master.     It   consisted   of   his   own 


THE  KEYNOTE  57 

thoughts  and  dreams,  of  peasant  laments,  the 
song  of  the  birds,  the  note  of  village  chimes, 
the  ringing  of  the  blacksmith's  anvil,  the  sigh 
of  the  wind,  of  all  the  sounds  that  penetrated 
to  the  inner  hearing  of  this  passionately  lov- 
ing son  of  Nature. 

He  felt  that  the  melodies  came  to  him 
through  some  outside  influence;  they  over- 
whelmed him,  made  him  dizzy  with  joy;  he 
sought  not  to  capture  or  remember  them,  but 
let  them  float  unbidden  through  his  brain; 
for  he  knew  that  harmonies  inexhaustible 
live  eternal  in  the  trees,  the  flowers,  the 
breeze;  and  like  those  who  follow  in  the  foot- 
steps of  the  Lord,  "he  was  not  afraid  neither 
was  he  dismayed." 

When  he  first  married,  his  wife  enjoyed 
his  music,  but  she  soon  wearied  of  it  and  said 
its  wailing  affected  her  nerves.  So  he  be- 
took himself  further  away.  Almost  every 
evening  he  shut  himself  up  in  his  room  with 
the  instrument  which  had  become  the  con- 
fidant of  his  memories,  his  emotions,  the  joys 
and  woes  and  thoughts  of  his  life. 

The  violin  voiced  his  inarticulate  feelings. 
It  understood  and  could  speak — so  plainly 
indeed    that   the    timid,    reserved    fellow    to 


58  THE  KEYNOTE 

whom  it  would  have  been  sheer  torture  to 
open  his  heart  to  any  human  being,  grew 
afraid  of  the  indiscretion  of  his  friend.  He 
trembled  lest  those  who  heard  should  under- 
stand. He  imagined  that  listeners  congre- 
gated at  his  door  to  whisper  and  gossip  over 
his  self-revelation;  his  room  was  not  far 
enough  removed  from  the  rest  of  the  house. 
He  therefore  adopted  a  different  plan.  He 
waited  until  nine  o'clock,  the  hour  at  which 
the  domestics  retired,  then,  cautiously  he 
crept  through  the  central  hall  and  along  the 
corridor  of  the  disused  wing;  in  one  of  the 
further  rooms,  shut  in  and  alone,  he  gave  him- 
self up  to  his  art  and  played  by  the  light  of 
the  moon  or  of  a  solitary  candle,  half  the  night 
through. 

For  thirty  years  he  had  been  doing  this, 
sharing  the  deserted  rooms  with  the  spiders, 
the  mice,  and  even  the  screech-owls ;  the  latter 
are  peculiarly  sensitive  to  music  and  often 
came  from  the  neighbouring  woods  to  perch 
near  the  violin  and  listen. 

In  the  course  of  those  thirty  years,  the  in- 
strument had  been  the  mouth-piece  of  the 
musician's  daily  life:  it  had  discoursed  of  sun- 
rise on  the  hills,  of  flocks  peacefully  cropping 


THE  KEYNOTE  59 

the  herbage,  of  young  love,  early  disappoint- 
ment, the  joys  and  hopes  of  fatherhood  fol- 
lowed by  renewed  disappointment,  and  finally 
of  the  rebellious  son,  and  his  departure — all 
these  experiences  had  been  wailed,  sung, 
sobbed  by  the  violin  of  worthy  old  Crouil- 
lebois'  pupil! 

On  this  special  evening,  his  soul  was  full 
of  music.  The  autumn  perfume  and  whisper 
of  the  forest  had  stirred  him  profoundly. 
He  felt  as  if  its  very  essence  had  crept  into 
his  innermost  soul. 

Nine  o'clock  struck.  The  muffled  sound 
came  down  the  chimney  from  the  clock  on 
the  summit  of  the  roof. 

He  seized  his  violin. 

But  first  he  wondered  whether  it  would  not 
be  desirable  that  he  should  free  his  mind  of 
all  preoccupation.  He  hesitated.  Should 
he  read  the  letter  he  had  just  received?  He 
decided  to  do  so,  and,  putting  down  the  in- 
strument, turned  up  the  wick  of  the  lamp. 

With  a  knife  he  slit  the  envelope,  a  habit 
he  had  caught  from  his  wife,  who  disliked 
to  see  a  letter  opened  untidily. 

"Monsieur  le  Comte,"  he  read. 


60  THE  KEYNOTE 

At  first  he  could  not  grasp  the  meaning  of 
what  he  saw;  then  he  turned  white;  his  hand 
shook  and  he  dropped  the  missive: 

"My  God,  what  is  this!  Anthime! 
Wretched  boy!  .  .  ." 

He  could  not  see  to  read;  a  mist  floated 
before  his  eyes  and  the  words  ran  into  each 
other. 

He  flew  to  the  door. 

"Emilie!" 

But  he  stopped  short,  remembering  swiftly 
that  above  all  things  his  wife  must  be  spared; 
his  limbs  failed  him  and  he  dropped  into  a 
chair,  overcome  by  the  violence  of  the  blow. 

He  sat  a  long  time,  motionless,  suffering 
horribly.  His  son's  face  stood  out  vividly 
before  his  mental  sight.  Hours  passed;  the 
lamp  flickered;  it  had  almost  burnt  itself  out. 

At  length,  with  a  shiver  he  awoke  from 
his  prostration,  and  the  terrible  words,  six 
hundred  thousand  francs,  twenty-four  thou- 
sand pounds,  danced  viciously  before  his  eyes: 
twenty-four  thousand  pounds! 

Terror  gripped  him.  He  realized  with 
anguish  that  all  the  farms  must  go. 

No,  he  would  not  pay!  He  had  done 
enough  for  his  son.     He  would  not  relieve 


THE  KEYNOTE  61 

him  a  second  time  of  the  penalty  of  his  trans- 
gression. 

Then  his  mood  changed.  He  grew  weak. 
His  heart  melted  in  self-pity.  Was  it  within 
reason  that  he,  who  had  never  yet  harmed 
mortal  man,  could  be  thus  cruelly  treated  and 
his  fortune  wrested  from  him  by  alien  hands? 
There  must  be  some  mistake.  Surely  the 
whole  world  would  rise  up  in  his  defence. 

What  was  there  to  prove  that  this  letter 
from  the  money-lender  Muller  was  not  a 
swindle,  an  attempt  at  blackmail?  How  on 
earth  could  he  find  out?  He  was  absolutely 
ignorant  in  money-matters;  he  knew  nothing 
about  them,  but  he  was  aware  that  vile  ex- 
tortions and  cheating  transactions  could  be 
perpetrated  by  evil-disposed  persons. 

The  lamp  had  gone  out;  the  hour  was  far 
advanced;  he  shivered  with  cold. 

Motionless,  his  head  bowed  over  his  out- 
stretched arms  he  pondered,  irresolute,  help- 
less as  a  child  caught  in  the  whirl  of  a  new 
unknown  world.  He  realized  that  he  had 
held  too  much  aloof  from  his  kind,  that  the 
solitude  he  so  prized  had  become  a  source  of 
distress. 

He  started  up.     A  name,  a  personality,  had 


62  THE  KEYNOTE 

suddenly  occurred  to  him  out  of  those  for- 
gotten days  of  the  past.  To  this  personality 
so  strangely  brought  to  his  memory  he  grasped 
as  a  drowning  man  to  a  plank. 

I'll  go  to  him,"  he  muttered  feverishly, 
I'll  go  to  him  at  once." 

Relief  brought  a  lump  into  his  throat;  he 
folded  his  hands  as  if  in  prayer,  and  raising 
his  eyes,  dim  with  tears,  he  moaned: 

"It's  been  a  mistake  .  .  .  One  cannot  live 
quite  alone!     A  man  must  have  friends!" 

*r>  tfl?  "Tf:  "yjf 

He  left  his  room  softly,  walking  on  tip- 
toe through  the  entrance  hall.  The  sudden 
contact  with  the  night  air  made  him  shiver. 
The  courtyard  was  damp  and  foggy.  He 
crossed  it  quickly.  Lirot  stirred  in  his  ken- 
nel, the  "Comte  Caradec"  thrust  his  lean 
head  and  neck  out  of  the  loose-box. 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  entered  one  of  the 
buildings  and  felt  his  way  up  a  narrow  wind- 
ing stair-case  leading  to  a  room  above  the 
stable.  He  stopped  at  the  top  and  knocked 
at  a  white-washed  door. 

"Frederic!"  he  called,  and  waited  an  in- 
stant. 


THE  KEYNOTE  63 

"Frederic!"  he  repeated,  and  knocked 
again. 

The  bed  creaked  and  bare  feet  padded 
over  the  wooden  floor. 

"Frederic,  it  is  I!" 

The  footsteps  hastened  and  the  heavy  door 
opened,  creaking. 

"Frederic!"  panted  his  master.  "You  are 
starting  early  for  Poitiers  ...  I  had  forgot- 
ten ...  I  must  go  too  ...  I  will  start  with 
you  .  .  .     What  time  is  it?" 

Frederic,  only  half  awake,  stood  silent  for 
a  moment  wondering  whether  this  was  all 
part  of  a  dream  .  .  .  this  holding  the  door 
open  in  his  night-shirt  and  hearing  the  agi- 
tated voice  of  his  master  in  the  dark.  Then 
he  decided  to  look  for  the  matches.  When 
he  had  lit  one,  swearing  a  little  under  his 
breath  as  the  first  two  or  three  broke  off, 
sputtered,  and  went  out,  he  lighted  his  lan- 
tern and  held  it  up  to  the  big  silver  watch 
which  hung  on  a  nail  above  his  bed. 

"Three  o'clock,"  he  replied,  in  a  voice  still 
hoarse  with  sleep. 

"Get  up!  Get  up!  We  must  be  off  by 
four  o'clock." 

"Very  good,  Master.  I'll  go  down  at  once 
and  give  the  mare  her  feed." 


64  THE  KEYNOTE 

In  his  surprise  at  the  emotion  manifest  in 
his  master's  voice  he  raised  the  lantern  to 
look  at  his  face. 

"Get  on,  get  on!"  urged  Monsieur  des 
Lourdines,  as  he  turned  and  hurried  down  the 
stair. 

3fc  vjr  ifc  #  3fc 

When  he  got  back  to  his  room  he  lit  the 
candle  he  had  prepared  for  his  vigil  with  the 
violin,  for  the  lamp  had  gone  out.  By  its 
wretched  glimmer  he  changed  his  clothes 
feverishly,  noiselessly,  almost  holding  his 
breath.  He  hurried  so  that  he  muddled 
things ;  he  had  the  utmost  difficulty  in  getting 
his  feet  into  his  town  boots,  the  leather  of 
which  had  hardened  and  stiffened  through 
want  of  use.  He  luckily  remembered  telling 
his  wife  he  had  no  business  to  do  in  Poitiers, 
so  he  sat  down  and  wrote  her  a  note  explain- 
ing that  Suire,  the  miller,  had  a  law  suit  com- 
ing on  and  had  begged  him  to  give  evidence 
in  his  favour.  He  was  sorry  not  to  have 
recollected  this  when  he  was  talking  to  her 
over-night. 

He  closed  the  letter  without  even  noticing 
that  he  who  had  hitherto  never  told  a  lie, 
had  just  written  one. 


THE  KEYNOTE  65 

He  slipped  the  note  under  his  wife's  door 
where  she  must  see  it  on  awaking;  and  softly, 
feeling  his  way  along  the  wall  and  avoiding 
creaky  boards,  he  crept  away,  without  waking 
a  soul. 

A  blue  haze  heralded  the  dawn;  the  fresh, 
brisk  air  of  the  early  morning  hours  when 
the  earth  seems  to  have  regained  youth  and 
vigour  during  the  night,  laid  its  cooling  touch 
on  his  heated  brow. 

Wrapping  himself  in  his  heavy  driving 
cloak  he  went  to  the  stables  and  found  Fred- 
eric completing  his  preparations  by  the  light 
of  a  lantern.  A  few  hens,  roused  from  sleep, 
cackled;  the  old  white  mare,  ready  harnessed, 
crunched  her  oats  with  a  grinding  sound. 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  waited  in  the 
stable-yard,  watching  a  friendly  star,  twink- 
ling between  two  poplars. 

He  turned  at  the  sound  of  the  mare's  foot- 
falls on  the  cobblestones.  She  was  being 
backed  towards  the  buggy.  Frederic  fetched 
his  whip,  a  brush  for  the  journey,  and  his  hat, 
which  he  deposited  on  the  horse-trough; 
then  he  lifted  the  shafts  to  the  mare  and 
fastened  buckles  and  straps,  casting  curious 
glances  the  while  at  his  master. 

"Quick,  Frederic — quickl" 


66  THE  KEYNOTE 

Frederic  pulled  on  his  great-coat,  but  re- 
membered he  had  left  his  leather  wallet  in 
the  stable.  He  ran  to  fetch  it — now  the  key 
of  the  cashbox  was  forgotten.  At  last  every- 
thing was  ready  and  Monsieur  des  Lourdines 
got  into  the  cart.  But  he  passed  by  the  box- 
seat  and  threw  himself  into  the  other.  The 
coachman  handed  him  the  reins,  but  Mon- 
sieur des  Lourdines  shook  his  head.  "No — 
you  drive — hurry  up  1" 

They  were  off.  The  clock  on  the  Chateau 
struck  four  as  they  rolled  out  of  the  gates. 

Five  long  hours'  drive  lay  before  them,  five 
hours  in  which  to  listen  dreamily  to  the 
sound  of  the  wheels  on  the  road.  They 
crawled  up  the  steep  side  of  the  Creneraie 
hill.  It  was  the  dark  moment  before  the 
break  of  day.  On  either  side  the  puddles  in 
the  cart  tracks  shone  under  the  flash  of  the 
lamps ;  far  away  in  the  distance  a  light  showed 
in  some  window;  the  panting  breath  of  the 
mare  rose  in  a  cloud  of  steam  above  her  head. 
White,  gauzy  vapours  hovered  low  above  the 
meadows.  The  woods  were  mysteriously 
outlined  on  the  hills  beyond. 

"There's   the   forest,"   hazarded   Frederic, 


THE  KEYNOTE  67 

pointing  with  his  finger  and  hoping  for  a  chat 
to  while  away  the  time. 

Receiving  no  answer,  he  cracked  the  whip 
and  put  the  mare  into  a  trot. 


CHAPTER  V 

THEY  reached  Poitiers  at  about  nine 
o'clock.  The  market  was  in  full 
swing  and  to  Monsieur  des  Lour- 
dines'  annoyance  the  buggy  was  forced,  by 
the  crowded  condition  of  the  thoroughfare, 
to  slow  down  to  walking  pace.  The  swarm 
of  pedestrians,  vehicles,  and  animals  increased 
with  every  moment.  There  was  not  space  in 
the  narrow  street  for  the  accumulation  of 
empty  carts,  stalls  loaded  with  goods  for  sale, 
pigs  struggling  among  the  farmers'  legs,  and 
the  huge  umbrellas  carried  by  every  good- 
wife. 

The  buggy  could  only  crawl  at  last;  but 
the  mare  poked  her  nose  into  necks  and 
shoulders,  pushed  between  haggling  couples 
and  pressed  steadily  forward,  indifferent  to 
all  obstacles. 

Frederic's  numerous  acquaintances  shook 
him  by  the  hand  as  he  passed,  calling  out 
cheery  greetings.  Monsieur  des  Lourdines 
evaded  recognition  by  leaning  well  back  un- 

68 


THE  KEYNOTE  69 

der  the  hood;  but  notwithstanding  this  pre- 
caution he  heard  his  name  passed  from  mouth 
to  mouth  in  the  crowd.  He  cowered  still 
further  back  and  pulled  his  hat  over  his  eyes. 

The  "Plat  d'etain,"  patronized  by  the 
gentry  and  the  more  substantial  merchants 
was  on  the  further  side  of  the  town. 

Rows  of  carriages  already  filled  the  court- 
yard when  the  Petit- Fougeray  buggy  drove  in. 

"Here  we  are  at  last!"  murmured  Frederic, 
pulling  up. 

They  threw  off  the  rugs,  and  an  ostler 
hurried  up  to  take  the  mare. 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  got  down  and 
stood,  giddy  and  tired,  trying  to  stamp  the 
stiffness  out  of  his  limbs. 

To  him  bustled  the  host,  exclaiming 
jovially  in  stentorian  tones: 

"Monsieur  des  Lourdines!  Never!  Well, 
upon  my  word!  Monsieur  des  Lourdines  in 
Poitiers !  Dearie  me,  and  how  are  you,  Mon- 
sieur des  Lourdines?" 

Monsieur  Bricart  was  stout  and  rosy,  with 
a  thatch  of  wiry  brown  hair;  he  was  an  ex- 
pert horse-coper  and  the  friend  of  all  gentle- 
men in  the  country-side. 

"How  .  .  .  how  are  you,   Monsieur  Bri- 


70  THE  KEYNOTE 

cart?"  stammered  Monsieur  des  Lourdines, 
unwillingly.  "Be  good  enough  to  give  me 
a  room  for  to-night,  will  you?" 

The  weary  traveller,  lost  in  the  folds  of  his 
vast  driving-cape,  could  barely  muster  a 
smile.  He  would  fain  have  fled,  but  the  host 
button-holed  him  and  wrung  his  hand — such 
familiarity  was  surely  permissible  with  this 
unassuming  little  gentleman. 

"Certainly,  certainly,  Monsieur  des  Lour- 
dines. Come,  let  us  crack  a  bottle  together, 
eh?"  fat  Bricart  proposed,  pressing  closer  as 
Monsieur  des  Lourdines  attempted  to  escape. 

"Thank  you,  no,  Monsieur  Bricart,  not 
just  now." 

"What,  not  a  little  glass  just  to  pass  the 
time  of  day?  To  get  the  fog  out  of  your 
throat?  Nothing  like  it  for  clearing  the 
brain  before  a  bargain!     Come,  just  one!" 

"No,  thank  you.  Really,  Monsieur  Bri- 
cart, I  cannot  at  present  ...  I  ...  I  am  not 
.  .  .  not  quite  well  .  .  .  d'you  see  .  .  .  not 
quite  well  .  .  .  wine  would  upset  me  .  .  .;" 
and  Monsieur  des  Lourdines  made  a  further 
effort  to  evade  the  noisy  attentions  of  worthy 
Bricart. 

"Not  well?  The  devil!  A  good  Poitevin 
like  you  not  well?     Oh,  come,  come!     Look 


THE  KEYNOTE  71 

here,  sir,  a  word  in  your  ear.  When  I  saw 
you  come  in  just  now,  I  said  to  myself: 
'Monsieur  des  Lourdines  has  come  to  Poitiers 
to  buy  a  new  horse  in  place  of  the  white  mare, 
who  is  not  growing  any  younger.'  Luckily, 
I  have  the  very  thing  for  you — a  chance  you 
won't  get  twice  in  a  lifetime.  Thobiel"  he 
called  to  a  stableboy  polishing  harness  in  a 
shed,  "Thobie,  take  the  rugs  off  Bonbonne! 
Make  haste,  my  lad!" 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  looked  anxiously 
about  for  a  way  to  escape. 

"No,  really,  Monsieur  Bricart  .  .  .  pray 
.  .  .  I  am  not  buying  this  morning,  I  assure 
you  ...  I  am  in  a  hurry — I  am  sorry  I  can- 
not wait.  .  .  ." 

"One  minute,  sir,  I  beg!  There!  What 
do  you  say  to  that!"  and  the  dealer  pointed 
proudly  at  a  handsome  black  mare  pawing 
the  ground  and  whinnying  at  the  door  of  her 
loose-box. 

"Isn't  she  a  beauty?  Look  at  that  shoul- 
der! My  word!  And  talk  of  trotting! 
She'll  make  anything  she  wants  to  pass  on  the 
road  look  silly!  Monsieur  Anthime  wouldn't 
have  wasted  a  second,  I  can  assure  you!  She 
would  be  his  by  now!  And  I'll  make  the 
price  nice   and   easy.    You   shall   have   her 


72  THE  KEYNOTE 

for  sixty  pounds.  Did  you  ever  see  such 
feet!" 

"Yes,  yes,  indeed.  She  is  a  beauty,  she's 
everything  you  say  ..."  Monsieur  des 
Lourdines  threw  over  his  shoulder,  as  he  edged 
away,  a  frown  of  helpless  annoyance  carving 
a  new  furrow  on  his  drawn  face. 

"Oho!  I  see!  You  want  to  go  round  the 
market  first  and  see  a  little  of  everything! 
Well,  you'll  come  back!" 

But  Monsieur  des  Lourdines  had  fled  at 
ast,  striding  over  all  obstacles  and  humping  his 
back  obstinately.  "You'll  come  back,  Mon- 
sieur des  Lourdines,  you'll  have  to  come  back! 
See  if  you  don't!"  mine  host  shouted  after  him ; 
and  as  Frederic  approached,  he  addressed  him 
inquisitively: 

"Where  is  your  master  off  to,  Frederic? 
He  looks  very  queer." 

"He  hasn't  said  anything  to  me,"  replied 
Frederic.  "I  only  know  that  he  woke  me  up 
in  the  middle  of  the  night  and  ordered  me  to 
bring  him  here,  and  that  he  looked  like  a 
ghost,  poor  gentleman.  Perhaps  he's  come  to 
see  a  doctor!" 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  had  turned  the  cor- 
ner    He  hurried  to  his   goal   as   fast  as  he 


THE  KEYNOTE  73 

could,  eager  for  the  advice  he  had  come  so 
far  to  seek. 

Presently  he  left  the  crowd  behind  and  en- 
tered a  quiet  side-street  called  the  Rue  des 
Carmelites.  He  could  not  remember  the 
number  of  the  house  he  was  in  search  of.  He 
asked  a  passer-by  to  tell  him  where  Monsieur 
Lamarzelliere  lived,  and  was  shown  a  little 
house  standing  back  from  the  street  within  a 
pair  of  iron  gates  flanked  on  either  side  by  two 
mountain-ashes  and  some  bent  yucca-trees. 

A  servant  opened  the  door  and  having  taken 
his  card  to  her  master,  came  back  with  orders 
to  show  him  in  at  once.  He  stepped  hastily 
over  the  threshold  which  he  hoped  would 
bring  him  salvation. 

Monsieur  Lamarzelliere  had  been  at  school 
with  him,  and  was,  besides,  distantly  related 
to  Madame  des  Lourdines.  The  formula  he 
invariably  made  use  of  in  presenting  himself 
will  be  his  best  introduction  to  the  reader: 
"I  am,  Sir  or  Madame,  Councillor  to  His 
Majesty,  at  the  Imperial  Court  of  Poitiers." 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  followed  at  the 
heels  of  the  maid,  tripping  over  the  door  mat 
in  his  haste. 

The  magistrate  rose  from  his  seat  in  a  dark 


74  THE  KEYNOTE 

corner,  offering  his  right  hand  in  greeting, 
while  with  his  left  he  held  his  dressing-gown 
close  over  his  breast. 

"Des  Lourdines!     This  is  a  surprise!" 

He  was  a  tall  man.  Long  silvery  hair, 
brushed  well  back,  fell  behind  his  ears,  fram- 
ing a  gaunt  sallow  face. 

"What  good  wind  blows  you  here?"  he  ex- 
claimed cheerfully;  but  long  experience  in 
reading  the  human  countenance  in  the  execu- 
tion of  his  profession,  caused  him  to  change  his 
tone  directly: 

"Sit  down  here,  old  man,"  he  added  gently. 

"Lamarzelliere!  Lamarzelliere!"  cried 
Monsieur  des  Lourdines,  suddenly  breaking 
down  and  seizing  the  magistrate's  hand. 
"Save  me !  Save  me !  You  are  my  last  hope  I 
I  have  come  ..."  he  choked — tears  rose  to 
his  eyes  and  threatened  to  overflow;  the  shad- 
ows on  his  cheeks  grew  purple.  "One  can't 
get  on  quite  alone,"  he  muttered  through 
clenched  teeth;  "one  needs  a  friend  some- 
times." 

The  Councillor  stared  in  astonishment.  He 
was  a  machine  not  a  man;  prim,  narrow- 
minded,  caustic. 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  he  murmured  reas- 
suringly.    "One  has  need  of  others,  naturally. 


THE  KEYNOTE  75 

But  come,  come,  control  yourself!  What  is 
the  matter,  des  Lourdines?" 

And  tapping  his  shoulder  gently,  he  endeav- 
oured to  calm  his  old  schoolfellow,  whom  he 
had  always  looked  down  upon  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent, as  a  good  fellow,  but  something  of  a  fool. 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  pulled  out  his 
pocket-book,  extracted  a  letter  from  it  and 
handed  it  to  his  friend. 

"Read  that!"  he  said,  throwing  himself  into 
a  chair,  and  holding  his  head  in  his  hands, 
while  the  Councillor  walked  to  the  window 
and  raised  the  missive  to  the  light. 

Monsieur  Lamarzelliere  read  aloud: 

"Monsieur  le  Comte  .  .  /' 

"Poor  old  boy,  poor  old  boy!"  he  exclaimed, 
when  he  had  finished.  He  wrinkled  his  nose 
in  a  manner  betokening  acute  attention  cou- 
pled with  some  anxiety. 

"I  send  the  boy  forty  pounds  a  month,"  ex- 
claimed Monsieur  des  Lourdines,  angrily: 
"forty  pounds  a  month !  He  might  have  done 
on  that,  I  should  have  thought!  It's  a  good 
allowance,  even  for  Paris — and  I  would  have 
given  more  if  he  had  asked  for  it.  I  received 
that  letter  last  night;  my  poor  wife  handed  it 
to  me  herself.  She  knew  nothing  about  it,  of 
course;  luckily,  I  didn't  read  it  before  her. 


76  THE  KEYNOTE 

Thank  God  for  that  at  least!  I  read  it  in 
my  room  and  she  knows  nothing  as  yet.  I 
thought  at  once  of  you,  my  old  friend.  The 
situation  is  appalling.  I  must  have  some  one 
to  help  me  through  it;  an  adviser,  an  expert! 
I  said  to  myself;  'There  must  be  a  screw  loose 
somewhere;  this  letter  may  be  out  of  order, 
but  how  can  I  find  out?  How  am  I  to  get 
out  of  the  difficulty?'  " 

The  Councillor  sat  thinking.  A  herd  of 
cows  was  moving  down  the  street  towards  the 
market  place;  their  lowing  and  the  shuffling 
footsteps  of  the  drovers  could  be  heard  through 
the  window. 

"I  sincerely  hope,"  began  Monsieur  Lamar- 
zelliere  impressively,  "that  you  do  not  intend 
to  hold  yourself  responsible  for  the  debt." 

He  was  well  aware  of  the  weakness  of  the 
des  Lourdines  on  any  point  of  honour. 

"To  hold  myself  responsible!"  repeated 
Monsieur  des  Lourdines,  startled. 

The  magistrate  knew  his  man,  or  rather  he 
thought,  in  the  superficial  way  men  have  of 
judging  each  other,  that  he  knew  him.  He 
made  up  his  mind  immediately:  his  cue  was 
to  speak  authoritatively  and  stiffen  up  the 
poor  weakling  who  was  so  pitiably  unable  to 
fight  his  own  battle. 


THE  KEYNOTE  77 

He  therefore  sat  down  ponderously,  in  the 
official  seat,  whence  he  felt  best  able  to  dom- 
inate the  situation. 

"Calm  yourself,  des  Lourdines,  I  repeat,  and 
let  us  review  the  situation  dispassionately." 

"Yes,  yes,  by  all  means,  Lamarzelliere, 
clearly  and  dispassionately." 

"Listen!"  continued  the  Councillor,  in  his 
cold,  judicial,  slightly  nasal  tones;  "I  am  a 
childless  bachelor.  Were  I  the  father  of  a 
son,  I  should  have  brought  him  up  in  hand- 
cuffs, metaphorically  speaking;  for  I  look 
upon  constraint  as  the  primary  principle  of 
rational  education.  I  am  aware  that  we  differ 
on  that  point.  I  will  therefore  not  touch  upon 
the  sentimental  side  of  the  question,  nor  will 
I  give  my  view  as  to  the  moral  obligation  of 
your  son  with  regard  to  the  liabilities  he  has 
incurred.  But  since  you  desire  my  legal  opin- 
ion, here  it  is:"  (here  he  blew  his  nose  im- 
portantly). 

"In  this  matter,  three  alternatives  present 
themselves  for  our  consideration:  either  the 
debt  does  not  exist  at  all;  or,  it  stands  good  in 
its  entirety;  or  it  has  been  fraudulently  in- 
creased. We  may,  I  think,  dismiss  the  two 
first  as  highly  improbable,  or  at  any  rate  quite 
easy  to  deal  with.     Passing  to  the  third:     this 


78  THE  KEYNOTE 

Miiller  must  be  some  back-street  money-lender 
who  sees  in  your  son's  fine  prospects  a  chance 
of  obtaining  interest  out  of  all  proportion  to 
the  sums  lent,  that  is  to  say,  interest  usurious 
to  such  a  degree  as  not  to  be  recoverable  by 
law." 

"Exactly,  exactly,  that  is  what  I  thought!" 
put  in  Monsieur  des  Lourdines,  gazing  plead- 
ingly at  the  magistrate. 

Monsieur  Lamarzelliere  continued:  "We 
may  even  find  that  this  money-lender,  this 
usurer,  has,  on  some  previous  occasion, 
brought  himself  within  reach  of  the  law. 
This  is  of  course  mere  hypothesis,  but  it  is 
worth  verifying,  and  such  an  inquiry  can  be 
conducted  with  the  greatest  ease  by  any  busi- 
ness man,  your  solicitor  for  instance.  Do  you 
follow  me?" 

"Perfectly!"  replied  Monsieur  des  Lour- 
dines, his  face  clearing. 

"Very  well.  When  the  inquiry  is  complete, 
if  the  result  should  be  as  I  imagine,  there  could 
naturally  be  no  question  of  payment  in  full. 
But  even  then  there  would  still  remain  a  con- 
siderable debt  to  be  discharged.  This  brings 
us  back  to  the  question  I  put  to  you  first:  do 
you,  or  do  you  not,  intend  to  pay?" 

The   relief  which   had  momentarily   illu- 


THE  KEYNOTE  79 

mined  Monsieur  des  Lourdines'  countenance 
disappeared  instantly;  his  eyes  clouded,  his 
arms  fell  heavily  to  his  sides. 

"How  can  I  tell!"  he  groaned.  "What  can 
I  say!  You  tell  me  there  will  in  any  case  be 
something  considerable  to  pay.  If  I  refuse, 
where  is  Anthime  to  get  the  money?  After 
all  he  is  my  son — God  in  heaven,  what  am  I 
to  do!" 

Monsieur  Lamarzelliere  began  to  show 
signs  of  impatience.  He  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders and  moistened  his  lips. 

"This  is  waste  of  time — pure  nonsense,"  he 
drawled.  "Let  me  speak  frankly  as  a  lawyer, 
and  recall  to  you  that  a  principle  is  involved 
in  this,  besides  the  sentimental  aspect  of  the 
case.  Listen!  Let  us  admit  that  the  original 
debt  has  been  incurred.  If  it  can  be  proved 
that  the  money-lender  has  imposed  scandal- 
ously usurious  interest,  you,  by  paying  in  full, 
ipso  facto  condone  his  fraud,  and  I  say  you 
have  no  right  to  do  so." 

"But  .  .  .  but  .  .  ."  stammered  Monsieur 
des  Lourdines  .  .  .  "does  not  the  question  of 
honour  equally  occur?" 

"Honour,  forsooth!  my  good  fellow,  that 
much-misapplied  term  honour  forbids  you  to 
commit  a  quixotic  action  which  becomes   a 


80  THE  KEYNOTE 

precedent  and  threatens  to  involve  other  par- 
ents in  difficulties  identical  with  your  own! 
Honour  forbids  you  to  pander  to  your  parental 
self-indulgence,  by  encouraging  this  odious 
form  of  making  capital  out  of  the  follies  of 
youth.     Honour  .  .  ." 

"But,  Lamarzelliere,  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
prison !  Anthime  shall  not  go  to  prison — I  tell 
you,  rather  than  that  should  happen  .  .  ." 
speech  failed  the  wretched  man.  He  was  si- 
lent. The  Councillor  stared  and  his  eyes  said 
more  plainly  than  words :  "What  is  one  to  do 
with  a  fatuous  idiot  like  this!" 

"Prison!"  he  echoed.  "Imprisonment  for 
debt  does  not  involve  disgrace.  Moreover 
the  prison  doors  are  not  so  readily  opened  as 
you  seem  to  think.  Money-lenders  know  full 
well  that  in  dealing  with  parents  the  threat  of 
imprisonment  produces  excellent  results.  Be- 
sides," he  pulled  a  heavy  volume  out  of  the 
book-case  behind  him  and  turned  over  its 
leaves  as  he  spoke,  "there  are  laws.  Here  we 
are,  here  is  your  boy's  case:  imprisonment  for 
debt  can  only  be  imposed  where  stel-li-o-nate 
can  be  proved."  He  rolled  the  long  word  on 
his  tongue. 

"Stellionate?"  repeated  Monsieur  des  Lour- 
dines,  looking  scared  out  of  his  wits. 


THE  KEYNOTE  81 

"Yes." 

The  Councillor  looked  up. 

"The  expression  stellionate,  my  dear  fellow, 
is  derived  from  a  Latin  word,  stellio,  a  poison- 
ous lizard  thus  named  by  the  Romans  on  ac- 
count of  the  star-shaped  spots  on  its  back. 
Jurisconsults  have  bestowed  upon  fraudulent 
— there,  there  ...  a  complete  explanation 
would  carry  us  too  far  from  the  case  in  point. 
Stellionate  can  be  pleaded  where,  for  instance, 
the  furniture  of  a  house  is  sold  or  pledged  by 
one  who  is  not  its  absolute  proprietor.  Now  it 
is  to  the  last  degree  improbable  that  your  son 
should  have  so  deceived  a  professional  money- 
lender as  to  induce  him  to  accept  a  mortgage 
on  Petit-Fougeray!" 

"I  suppose  so,"  sighed  Monsieur  des  Lour- 
dines. 

"Now,  in  commercial  law,  on  the  other 
hand,"  pursued  the  Magistrate,  turning  over 
the  leaves  of  the  book  rapidly,  "Article  I.  of 
the  Code  of  1832,  enjoins  imprisonment  for 
commercial  debt.  Your  son  is  not  a  trader, 
ergo  .  .  . 

"And  now,  old  man,  there  is  a  further  point 
you  do  not  seem  to  have  considered  as  yet. 
What  would  you  have  left  to  live  upon,  if  you 
paid    away    twenty-four    thousand    pounds? 


82  THE  KEYNOTE 

That  has  to  be  thought  of.  How  could  you 
manage?  It  would  surely  spell  ruin!  Is 
your  wife  in  a  fit  state  to  bear  such  a  calamity? 
I  personally  do  not  think  so.  You  would  be 
absolutely  ruined,  and  she — well,  she  might 
— you  must  face  it,  my  boy — it  might  kill  her, 
eh?    What?" 

"It  would  kill  her  if  Anthime  went  to 
prison,"  Monsieur  des  Lourdines  persisted 
drearily.  He  seemed  crushed  under  the 
weight  of  his  misfortune. 

They  argued  for  a  long  time. 

At  length  Monsieur  Lamarzelliere  grew 
weary. 

"Look  here!"  he  exclaimed  in  tones  which 
warned  his  hearer  that  he  was  making  his  ulti- 
mate declaration:  "If  you  utterly  refuse,  as 
I  strongly  advise,  to  be  responsible  for  your 
son's  debts,  and  if  he  has  to  go  to  prison  in 
consequence,  it  will  no  doubt  be  a  great  sor- 
row to  you,  des  Lourdines,  and  I  sympathize 
deeply  with  you;  still,  my  conscience  bids  me 
tell  you  that,  since  your  son  has  chosen  to  sow 
the  wind,  you  should  let  him  reap  the  whirl- 
wind: therein  alone  lie  justice  and  equity." 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  rose  slowly.  His 
friend's  words  seemed  to  have  inflicted  a 
mortal  wound. 


THE  KEYNOTE  83 

''Justice!  Equity!"  he  murmured  in 
trembling  tones.  "Oh,  Lamarzelliere,  you 
have  indeed  opened  my  eyes!  Anthime,  poor 
Anthime,  is  my  son.  Who  can  say  that  all 
that  has  happened  is  not  the  fault  of  his  train- 
ing, of  his  parents?" 

He  bowed  his  head  on  his  hands  and  his 
lips  quivered. 

Monsieur  Lamarzelliere  made  an  involun- 
tary gesture  such  as  Pilate  may  have  used 
when  he  asked  the  great  question  which  has 
never  yet  received  an  answer;  he  ran  his 
fingers  idly  through  the  leaves  of  the  law-book, 
but  made  no  sound. 

A  neighbouring  Convent  bell  began  to  toll. 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  walked  towards 
the  door  without  raising  his  eyes. 

"Won't  you  stay  to  lunch,  my  dear  old  boy? 
Stay  and  have  some  food ;  it  will  do  you  good." 

"No  thank  you,  I  couldn't." 

The  Magistrate  tried  to  persuade  him,  but 
elicited  only  a  jerky  refusal,  and  this  sentence 
muttered  in  heart-broken  tones:  "I  must  be 
alone!" 

At  the  threshold,  Lamarzelliere  whispered, 
"Courage!"  with  a  kindly  tap  on  the  shoulder 
of  the  stricken  man.  Des  Lourdines  looked 
up  but  his  stiffened  lips  could  frame  no  word. 


84  THE  KEYNOTE 

He  walked  up  the  street  and  found  him- 
self again  in  the  midst  of  the  market. 

He  had  gone  to  the  Councillor  with  com- 
plete faith  in  his  ability  to  save  the  situation. 
He  had  been  confident  that  the  man  of  law 
would  see  his  way  through  the  tangle,  and 
prescribe  some  definite  course  of  action;  now 
he  felt  lost,  solitary,  helpless.  But  at  least  his 
mind  was  made  up.  Lamarzelliere's  pom- 
pous periods  had  contained  a  hint  which  sent 
him  flying  to  his  solicitor,  Maitre  Paillaud. 

His  way  lay  across  the  central  square  of  the 
cattle  fair.  It  was  densely  crowded  and  he 
found  it  difficult  to  force  a  passage  for  him- 
self. Presently  his  eye  fell  upon  a  familiar 
figure;  a  wrinkled,  sunburnt  neck,  angular 
shoulders  clad  in  a  light  blue  blouse,  legs  all 
bowed  and  twisted:  Celestin! 

Celestin  was  prodding  the  sides  of  a  milch 
cow;  in  his  hand  he  held  the  scissors  with 
which  he  would  presently  cut  a  mark  in  the 
animal's  coat,  if  he  concluded  the  deal. 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  caught  at  his 
blouse. 

"Holy  Virgin!"  exclaimed  Celestin,  startled 
at  the  sight  of  his  master  whom  he  supposed 
to  be  some  thirty  miles  away. 

"Celestin,  don't  buy  that  cowl" 


THE  KEYNOTE  85 

"But,  Master,  why  not?"  questioned 
Celestin,  opening  wide  his  dog-like  eyes.  "I 
shall  not  find  a  grander  milker  anywhere; 
there  is  nothing  better  in  the  market  to-day!" 

"I  mean,  don't  buy  that  one  or  any  other 
— not  to-day,  anyhow.  I've  been  thinking  it 
over.     No,  we  won't  buy!" 

He  moved  away  and  was  speedily  swal- 
lowed up  in  the  crowd,  leaving  Celestin  gaz- 
ing after  him  open-mouthed. 

There  were  a  great  many  people  in  the  so- 
licitor's waiting-room,  as  was  usual  on  market 
days.  Monsieur  des  Lourdines  squeezed 
himself  into  a  little  space  on  a  bench  between 
two  countrymen  and  awaited  his  turn.  His 
neighbours  chewed  tobacco  and  stared  at  the 
strange  little  gentleman  who  muttered  to  him- 
self and  sighed. 

A  clerk,  passing  through,  recognized  him 
and  offered  to  hear  his  business  at  once,  in  a 
private  corner  of  the  room;  but  Monsieur  des 
Lourdines  preferred  to  consult  kindly  old 
Maitre  Paillaud,  the  family  solicitor,  in  per- 
son. He  had  been  so  suddenly  roused  from 
his  painful  reverie  that  he  stammered  and  re- 
peated over  and  over  again:  "Monsieur  le 
Notaire  „  .  .  Monsieur  le  Notaire  .  .  ."   in 


86  THE  KEYNOTE 

such  strange  tones  that  the  young  man  looked 
at  him  in  astonishment. 

"Very  good,  sir,"  he  said  at  length,  "I  will 
let  him  know  at  once  that  you  are  here." 

A  moment  later,  Maitre  Paillaud  put  his 
head  in  at  the  door,  singled  out  Monsieur  des 
Lourdines,  and  said  with  a  pleasant  smile: 

"Will  you  come  this  way  please,  Monsieur 
des  Lourdines." 

They  shook  hands. 

Maitre  Paillaud  was  a  little,  fat,  bald  man, 
with  snow-white  skin.  A  velvet  skull-cap 
with  a  long  tassel  framed  his  knobby  fore- 
head, and  his  pince-nez,  shielding  a  pair  of 
searching  brown  eyes,  quivered  like  antennae 
with  each  of  his  nervous  gestures. 

At  the  opening  words  of  his  client,  his 
mouth  rounded  itself  into  an  astonished  "Oh!" 
Being  hard  of  hearing  he  alternately  bent  his 
ear  towards  his  interlocutor,  then  turned 
quickly  to  scrutinize  his  face  and  try  to  dis- 
cover whether  by  any  chance — could  the  poor 
gentleman  be — ?  twenty-four  thousand 
pounds!  His  tongue  refused  its  office.  He 
forgot  to  ask  his  client  to  be  seated;  he  stood 
aghast,  twisting  his  quill  pen  round  and  round 
in  his  fingers.  The  old  story,  alas!  Why 
must  all  the  good  old  country-stock  ruin  it- 


THE  KEYNOTE  87 

self,  and  go  under  in  this  idiotic  fashion?  He 
felt  outraged  at  the  thought  of  so  much  money 
going  out  of  the  district! 

Now  at  last  Monsieur  des  Lourdines  was 
expressing  himself  firmly  and  lucidly. 
Maitre  Paillaud  listened  dumbly  and  made  no 
sign  beyond  occasionally  wringing  his  hands. 

After  he  had  taken  down  the  name  and  ad- 
dress of  the  money-lender  he  broke  out: 
"Good  Heavens!  Is  it  possible!  I  can 
hardly  believe  it!  Who  could  have  supposed 
.  .  ."  he  snatched  his  cap  from  his  head,  as 
if  about  to  hurl  it  to  the  floor;  his  naked 
cranium  gleamed  like  a  billiard-ball. 

"I  am  absolutely  astounded!  astounded! 
I  am  grieved  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart, 
sir!" 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  grasped  his  hand 
convulsively. 

"I  will  proceed  with  the  inquiry  immedi- 
ately, and  I  sincerely  hope  we  shall  get  off 
with  only  a  nasty  fright!  But,  sir,  in  the  de- 
plorable event  ...  it  might  be,  you  know, 
that  .  .  .  pray  forgive  me,  dear  sir,  and  be- 
lieve that  the  question  I  ought  to  ask  is  dic- 
tated by  ...  by  the  profound  interest  I  feel 
in  your  distinguished  family  ...  an  old  serv- 
ant, you  know  .  .  ." 


88  THE  KEYNOTE 

In  strangled  tones,  Monsieur  des  Lourdines 
replied  slowly: 

"I  should  pay,  Maitre  Paillaud!" 

The  solicitor  gazed  at  him  with  a  mingled 
expression  of  respect,  and  pity.  Timidly  he 
objected: 

"But  would  you  sell  the  farms?  Sir,  re- 
flect! Pause,  I  beg  of  you!  Remember 
that  .  .  ." 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  shook  his  head 
wearily  and  took  up  his  hat.  Maitre  Paillaud 
escorted  him  to  the  top  of  the  stairs  and  stood, 
cap  in  hand,  watching  him  descend,  and  mur- 
muring in  broken  accents:  "My  devotion 
.  .  .  Sir,  let  me  assure  you  .  .  ." 

At  the  "Plat  d'etain"  Monsieur  des  Lour- 
dines sat  in  a  retired  corner  and  tried  to  eat, 
but  could  only  swallow  a  few  mouthfuls; 
Monsieur  Bricart  left  him  in  peace  but 
watched  him  curiously  from  a  distance. 

When  he  had  finished  his  meal  he  went  up- 
stairs and  locked  himself  into  his  narrow  lit- 
tle room  with  its  one  window  draped  with 
calico  curtains.  It  was  cold  and  damp.  He 
had  been  asked  whether  he  would  have  a  fire 
lighted,  but  had  declined. 

When  he  found  himself  alone  at  last,  for 


THE  KEYNOTE  89 

the  first  time  since  he  had  received  the  fate- 
ful letter,  a  kind  of  panic  seized  him;  he 
looked  apprehensively  at  the  unfamiliar 
white-washed  walls,  within  which  he  must  re- 
main prisoned  for  the  next  few  hours,  un- 
solaced  by  friendship,  alone  with  his  torment, 
far  from  his  beloved  Fougeray. 

He  stood  motionless,  staring  out  of  the  win- 
dow with  glazed  blue  eyes :  "Pity  me,  oh  my 
God!  Pity  me!"  Thoughts  wandered  dis- 
connectedly through  his  brain.  He  could 
hear  again  the  words  of  his  advisers,  words  so 
impotent  alas,  to  help  or  instruct. 

The  distant  buzz  of  the  market-place,  the 
cackle  of  poultry,  the  pawing  of  horses  stand- 
ing in  the  courtyard  below,  rose  muffled  to 
his  ears  through  the  closed  window.  He  lis- 
tened dully  to  the  mixture  of  human  and  ani- 
mal sounds.  The  poignant  emotions  he  had 
passed  through  in  the  last  twenty  hours, 
coupled  with  a  sleepless  night  and  almost  com- 
plete abstention  from  food,  had  thoroughly 
exhausted  him.  By  degrees  his  limbs  re- 
laxed, and  sitting  in  a  large  armchair  he  fell 
into  a  heavy  slumber. 

7F  "^  3(?  7f»  $fc 

In  his  dream  he  saw  a  huge  monster,  golden 
as  the  sun,   reclining  on  a  gigantic  spider's 


90  THE  KEYNOTE 

web  of  gleaming  ropes.  Terror  paralyzed 
his  limbs  when  Anthime  appeared  and  walked 
blindly  forward,  stumbling  against  the  ob- 
stacle. The  monster  stirred,  unfolded  hor- 
rific, scaly  tentacles  from  beneath  its  belly, 
seized  Anthime  and  climbing  swiftly  up  the 
luminous  web,  disappeared  into  darkness  with 
its  prey. 

He  opened  his  eyes. 

"Anthime  1"  he  groaned.  "God!  Where 
am  I!" 

With  beating  heart  he  turned  his  thoughts 
to  the  author  of  all  this  misery.  Why  was 
he  not  present!  He  would  have  loosed  the 
vials  of  his  wrath  upon  his  offending  head, 
would  have  relieved  his  soul  by  reviling  him 
as  an  unnatural  son,  an  infamous  wastrel,  a 
heartless  brute.  Faintness  came  over  him  and 
clouded  his  brain;  he  felt  far  away,  forlorn; 
everything  faded  from  him,  he  could  no 
longer  picture  his  son's  features.  This  was 
the  end  then!     All  was  over! 

"It  must  be  our  fault.  Surely,  surely  we 
are  to  blame  as  well!" 

He  was  choking.  He  must  get  out  of  this 
horrible  room. 

He  ran  downstairs,  and  rushing  through 
the  mob  outside,  made  his  way  by  devious 


THE  KEYNOTE  91 

side-streets  into  the  open  country.  The  even- 
ing air  cooled  his  heated  brain;  a  soft  drizzle 
moistened  his  cheek  with  a  touch  like  a  caress. 

He  tramped  at  a  steady  pace  along  the 
muddy  yellow  road,  where,  as  a  boy,  he  had 
trudged  with  his  schoolfellows  on  Sundays. 
He  did  not  recognize  the  old  landmarks;  he 
only  felt  that  he  must  walk,  walk,  walk  away 
into  the  far  distance,  for  ever  and  ever. 

Gusts  of  wind  swirled  in  the  ample  folds 
of  his  driving  cloak  and  whistled  across  the 
vast  spaces  of  red  ploughland  so  like  that  of 
his  property  at  Fouchaut,  which  must  now  go 
to  the  hammer.  He  forged  on,  hat  in  hand. 
Not  a  soul  was  about.  He  was  alone.  Far 
ahead  a  curtain  of  tall  poplars  lost  itself  in  a 
background  of  gloom  and  murk.  He  was 
practically  oblivious  of  his  surroundings,  of 
time,  of  his  own  personality.  He  walked 
mechanically,  urged  by  the  powerful  West 
wind,  soaked  through  by  fine  falling  rain  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  buggy  seemed  to  have  been  roll- 
ing along  the  high-road  for  hours  and 
hours.  The  lamps  were  alight  and 
their  glow  shone  yellow  on  the  hedges  and 
puddles. 

A  very  late  start  had  been  made,  so  that 
instead  of  reaching  Petit-Fougeray  in  the 
morning,  as  usual,  the  travellers  could  not 
arrive  before  nightfall.  First  of  all  Fred- 
eric made  several  mistakes  in  his  errands  for 
his  mistress  and  was  obliged  to  repair  them; 
then  he  found  that  the  mare  required  shoe- 
ing; later,  he  discovered  the  absence  of  his 
master  and  wasted  valuable  time  looking  for 
him  while  Monsieur  des  Lourdines  was  him- 
self hunting  high  and  low  for  Suire  the  miller. 
He  tried  the  Court-house,  the  clerk's  office, 
the  public-houses,  and  every  imaginable 
place;  for  at  the  last  moment  a  disquieting 
thought  had  presented  itself  to  his  weary 
brain:  what  could  he  possibly  tell  his  wife 
about  the  miller's  law-suit?     He  had  made  it 

92 


THE  KEYNOTE  93 

the  excuse  for  his  sudden  journey  to  Poitiers, 
and  now  he  could  neither  run  the  man  to 
ground,  nor  find  anyone  to  tell  him  how  the 
case  had  been  decided! 

Another  point  troubled  him:  how  was  he 
to  explain  his  prohibition  to  Celestin,  the  day 
before,  with  regard  to  the  cow?  Would  his 
wife  suspect  something?  It  was  a  deplor- 
able tangle  and  made  it  very  difficult  for  him 
to  carry  out  his  determination  not  to  tell  her 
the  truth  about  Anthime.  His  mind  was, 
however,  made  up  on  that  point:  until  the  re- 
sult of  the  inquiry  concerning  the  money- 
lender should  come  to  hand,  he  would  take 
every  means  to  safeguard  the  few  remaining 
hours  of  peace  it  might  be  the  lot  of  his  poor 
Emilie  to  enjoy. 

He  had  been  afraid  Celestin  might  get  back 
before  him  and  give  his  own  account  of  what 
had  happened;  but  he  had  just  passed  him  on 
the  road,  jogging  home  in  the  empty  cart. 

Master  and  man  drove  in  silence,  as  usual. 
They  had  left  the  flat  country  behind  and  had 
now  reached  their  own  district  with  its  long 
slow  climbs  up  the  hills,  and  the  stilted  trots 
down.  It  still  drizzled,  as  it  had  been  doing 
ever  since  the  night  before. 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  lay  back  suffering 


94  THE  KEYNOTE 

dully ;  he  was  tired  out.  The  monotonous  roll- 
ing of  the  wheels  might  have  lulled  him  to 
blessed  oblivion,  but  for  the  anguish  of  his 
soul,  the  aching  of  his  limbs,  the  smarting 
of  his  eyelids  from  unwonted  tears  and  loss  of 
sleep. 

He  roused  himself  slightly  at  sight  of  a 
light  in  a  distant  building.  The  gloom  un- 
der the  trees  thickened;  the  break  creaked; 
they  were  descending  the  Creneraie  hill. 
They  skirted  the  park  pailings  and  turned  to 
the  left  up  the  avenue,  bowling  over  the  short 
turf — the  jolting  of  the  springs  was  the  only 
sound  to  be  heard.  Lights  shone  in  Madame 
des  Lourdines'  sitting-room. 

"Courage!  Courage!"  he  muttered  weakly 
under  his  breath.  The  magistrate's  last 
words  seemed  to  beat  into  his  brain:  "Cour- 
age!" 

He  got  out  of  the  buggy  and  stood  with 
his  back  to  the  front  door,  stretching  up  to 
Frederic  for  the  parcels.  He  wanted  to  fill 
his  arms  with  them;  they  would  distract 
Emilie's  attention. 

The  muddy  wheels  swayed  as  the  mare 
shook  herself. 


THE  KEYNOTE  95 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  did  not  speak  for 
a  moment.  He  was  dazzled  by  the  light  of 
the  lantern  Perrine  held  before  his  face. 

"How  is  Madame?"  he  queried  at  last. 

"No  change,  Master,  no  change.  She  was 
beginning  to  fret  for  your  arrival!  You  are 
very  late,  Master!" 

"Pretty  late,  pretty  late,  Perrine.  The 
mare  had  to  be  shod,  and  one  thing  and  an- 
other, so  we  are  a  little  late — just  a  little  late." 

He  went  up  the  staircase,  sighing:  "Late! 
Yes,  indeed,  we  are  late!" 

She  had  heard  his  voice  and  was  awaiting 
him  at  the  threshold  of  her  apartment  lean- 
ing against  the  door  to  steady  herself.  When 
she  saw  him,  she  turned  and  preceded  him, 
swaying  slowly  into  the  room ;  then  she  faced 
him. 

A  wood  fire  diffused  a  pleasant  warmth. 

'Well,  you  haven't  hurried  yourself! 
What  on  earth  have  you  been  doing?" 

"Well,  you  see,  Emilie  .  .  .  Ouf,  I  am  out 
of  breath — I  must  have  come  upstairs  too 
quickly.  You  see — well,  Frederic  made  some 
stupid  mistakes  over  your  purchases;  and,  just 
as  we  were  starting,  the  mare  cast  a  shoe. 


9G  THE  KEYNOTE 

Never  mind — we  are  home  at  last,  and  here 
are  your  parcels:  knitting-wool,  I  think;  no, 
this  is  the  package  from  the  chemist." 

"I  was  getting  quite  anxious.  Bring  that 
here,  please,"  she  sat  down  at  the  table. 
"What  is  all  this  about  a  law-suit  of  Suire's? 
You  are  too  good  to  those  people,  Timothee; 
you  let  them  impose  upon  you.  What  is  the 
case  about?" 

He  took  off  his  driving  cloak. 

"It  is  hot  in  this  roomP 

He  spread  the  cloak  over  a  chair  in  front 
of  the  fire  to  dry. 

Then  in  a  voice  which  would  quiver 
against  his  will,  he  told  the  story  of  the  quarry 
and  the  claim  Pagis  was  making.  He  paced 
backwards  and  forwards,  horribly  uneasy, 
trying  to  avoid  his  wife's  eye. 

"A  mortgage!"  she  exclaimed,  pushing 
aside  the  parcel  she  was  unpacking. 

"But  where  do  you  come  in,  Timothee? 
What  could  you  give  evidence  about?" 

"Evidence?"  stammered  Monsieur  des 
Lourdines,  flushing  slightly — "well,  dear,  it 
was  not  exactly  my  evidence  he  wanted;  it 
was  more  moral  support.  How  can  I  ex- 
plain .  .  .  my  attendance  on  his  behalf  was 


THE  KEYNOTE  97 

a  sort  of  guarantee  of  his  respectability,  don't 
you  see?  It  is  difficult  to  put  these  things 
into  words — can't  you  understand?" 

"Of  course  I  can.    Did  he  win?" 

"Did  he  win?  That's  just  the  point  .  .  . 
it  is  not  very  easy  to  say  .  .  ." 

When  the  momentous  question  was  put  by 
his  wife,  her  eye  compelling  his,  every  word 
of  his  trumped-up  explanation  flew  out  of  his 
head.  He  gasped.  He  very  nearly  blurted 
out  the  truth.  He  knew  he  looked  absurd, 
and  that  his  voice  and  gestures  were  forced 
and  unconvincing. 

"Well?"  she  asked  again,  looking  at  him 
with  a  puzzled  expression. 

"Really,  Emilie,  I  can't  tell  you.  I  did 
not  stay  to  hear  the  end.  I  just  said  what 
was  necessary  and  came  away.  You  have  no 
idea  how  puzzling  legal  terms  are.  I  can 
make  neither  head  nor  tail  of  them." 

She  made  no  reply  to  this,  and  he  began  to 
breathe  more  freely. 

"What  time  did  you  start  for  Poitiers?" 

"When?  On  Monday?  At  four  in  the 
morning,  Emilie." 

"That  was  very  early!  But  where  did  you 
spend  the  first  part  of  the  night?" 


98  THE  KEYNOTE 

"Where?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  where?  You  did  not  sleep  in 
your  bed  here;  it  had  not  been  touched." 

This  was  the  last  straw.  He  stammered, 
blushed  and  looked  embarrassed.  She  told 
him  he  was  behaving  like  a  fool — then  she 
continued: 

"But,  Timothee,  come  nearer  the  lamp. 
I  thought  I  was  not  mistaken.  For  a  mo- 
ment I  imagined  it  might  be  a  trick  of  the 
light,  but  it  is  not.  What  is  the  matter  with 
you?    You  look  ill." 

"Nothing,  nothing,  Emilie.  On  my  hon- 
our there  is  nothing  the  matter." 

"But  you  are  looking  ghastly!" 

"I  am  not  ill,  only  just  tired'.  It  is  quite 
a  journey,  you  know." 

"If  you  are  really  not  ill,  all  right;  but  you 
certainly  do  not  look  yourself." 

She  desisted,  and  her  thoughts  began  to 
stray,  and  her  fingers  to  fidget. 

"What  a  long  time  Frederic  is.  I  want 
him  to  go  over  his  accounts  with  me — and 
Celestin.  Did  you  see  anything  of  him,  Timo- 
thee, or  was  he  back  before  you?" 

"Oh,  about  Celestin!"  exclaimed  Monsieur 
des  Lourdines,  shutting  his  eyes  and  riding 
blindly  at  the  fence:     "I  saw  him  at  the  cat- 


THE  KEYNOTE  99 

tie  fair.  I  have  thought  over  that  matter  of 
the  cow  again  and  decided  that  we  can  carry 
on  a  bit  longer  with  Blondine  and  Rous- 
seaude." 

"What!"  ejaculated  Madame  des  Lour- 
dines  angrily,  half  rising  from  her  chair. 

He  repeated  his  last  sentence,  though  with 
perceptibly  diminished  assurance. 

"So  Celestine  has  not  bought  a  cow?" 

"I  may  have  been  wrong,  my  dear,  but — " 

She  pulled  her  book-rest  violently  towards 
her. 

"How  dared  you!"  she  thundered,  glaring 
at  him. 

"Last  year  we  found  two  cows  ample,  you 
know,  Emilie,"  he  ventured  to  reply. 

"Indeed!  So  we  may  have,  last  year.  But 
now  Rosseaude  has  her  calf  to  suckle,  and 
we  cannot  take  all  her  milk.  The  winter  is 
coming  on  and  we  shall  have  workmen  and 
day-labourers  to  feed.  How  am  I  to  do  it? 
The  whole  thing  had  been  settled.  It  is  too 
bad!     You  are  perfectly  impossible!" 

The  colour  mounted  to  her  cheeks.  Her 
eyes  sparkled  excitedly  as  she  watched  her 
husband  pace  up  and  down  the  room. 

"Quite  true!"  Monsieur  des  Lourdines  be- 
gan to  waver  and  lose  his  head.     "Still,  I  do 


100  THE  KEYNOTE 

think  we  might  make  two  cows  do.  Per- 
haps we  could  get  rid  of  the  calf.  We  might 
sell  it  next  market  day." 

"Timothee,  you  are  crazy!  Sell  the  calf! 
What  difference  would  that  make — besides, 
we  agreed  to  rear  it!  This  is  really  beyond 
everything.  For  goodness'  sake,  Timothee, 
pull  yourself  together.  What  on  earth  is  the 
matter  with  you?" 

Frederic  appeared  at  the  half-open  door, 
an  account  book  in  hand.  Madame  des  Lour- 
dines  turned  her  head  gloomily  and  made  him 
a  sign  to  enter. 

"Timothee,  you  have  hung  your  cloak  to 
dry  in  front  of  my  fire.  The  smell  is  very 
disagreeable." 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  saw  his  oppor- 
tunity when  Frederic  began  to  speak,  seized 
the  garment  and  hastily  made  his  escape. 

Inexpressibly  grateful  to  his  frayed  nerves 
was  the  silence  of  his  own  room.  He  locked 
the  door,  thankfully  welcoming  the  promise 
of  the  long  solitary  hours  of  the  night.  No 
sound  reached  him  but  the  soughing  of  the 
wind  in  the  trees. 

His  violin  lay  on  the  bed.  The  sight  sur- 
prised him.  Why  was  it  not  on  top  of  the 
wardrobe  as  usual?     He  must  have  forgotten 


THE  KEYNOTE  101 

to  put  it  away  the  other  night.  Everything 
was  hazy  in  his  mind — the  violin  was  his  one 
friend — year  in  and  year  out  they  had  sung, 
dreamt,  wailed  together,  but  that  was  in  the 
old,  old  days  .  .  .  the  good  days  that  were 
over  for  him.  A  heavy  curtain  had  fallen 
and  separated  the  happy  years  that  would 
come  no  more,  from  the  wretchedness  spread 
before  him  in  the  future.  Something  seemed 
to  snap  in  his  brain.  He  knelt  at  his  bed- 
side, laid  his  head  on  his  violin,  and  fell  to 
helpless  weeping. 


h-U*-r.~.        f*. 


CHAPTER  VII 

FOR  some  days  nothing  transpired  at 
Petit-Fougeray.  The  secret  was  well 
guarded,  no  suspicion  was  aroused. 
Yet  a  curious  silence  brooded  over  the  place; 
the  very  cows  seemed  to  low  in  hushed  tones, 
the  dogs  to  bark  more  gently.  The  master 
was  out  all  day  and  only  returned  late  at  night, 
taciturn,  and  covered  with  mud  from  head 
to  foot;  he  might  almost  have  been  lying  on 
the  damp  earth,  or  wallowing  in  the  furrows 
of  the  ploughed  land.  Shadows,  which  the 
glow  of  the  lamps  availed  not  to  lighten,  lay 
heavy  upon  his  brow. 

He  was  always  on  the  watch  at  post  time. 
He  seized  the  letters  eagerly  and  tore  open  the 
envelopes  with  trembling  fingers. 

Though  no  news  had  yet  reached  him  from 
Maitre  Paillaud,  he  sat  down  daily  and  wrote 
to  Anthime.  Each  day  he  warned  him  that 
the  half-yearly  allowance  of  two  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds  he  had  paid  into  his  account  a 
month  ago  would,  in  all  probability,  be  the 

102 


THE  KEYNOTE  103 

last  he  could  afford  to  send  him.  He  filled 
pages  and  pages  with  cramped  writing, 
crossed  and  re-crossed  and  covered  with  blots, 
and  every  night  he  threw  them  into  the  fire. 
The  next  morning  he  would  begin  all  over 
.  .  .  but  always  the  letter  was  either  too  long 
or  too  short  or  too  stern  or  too  gentle.  He 
wished  to  curse,  but  could  not  bring  himself 
to  do  so ;  longed  to  forgive,  yet  hesitated ;  his 
sense  of  justice  was  outraged,  but  his  heart 
over-indulgent — hitherto  the  latter  had  won 
the  day,  and  the  letter  had  been  torn  up  in 
disgust  and  flung  into  the  fire.  Thus  the 
days  and  nights  succeeded  each  other. 

He  yearned  for  a  friend  to  whom  he  might 
confide  his  trouble,  for  the  weight  of  it,  borne 
alone,  was  like  to  crush  him.  Sometimes  he 
cried  his  tale  aloud,  in  the  woods.  But  such 
out-pourings  brought  no  relief;  he  needed  a 
sympathetic  ear,  the  pressure  of  a  kindly  arm 
passed  through  his  own. 

One  morning  Celestin  fetched  him  to  in- 
spect some  damage  on  the  property.  A  sluice 
had  given  way  in  one  of  the  irrigation  canals 
of  a  meadow.  The  day  was  hopelessly 
gloomy,  earth  and  sky  alike  were  grey,  inex- 
orably sad.  Quite  suddenly  his  heart  failed 
him  utterly — he  felt  he  could  bear  no  more. 


104  THE  KEYNOTE 

The  honest  countryman  trudging  along  in 
front  of  him  was  a  trusty  servant.  An  ir- 
resistible impulse  impelled  him  to  appeal  to 
his  devotion.  He  cried  out:  "Celestin!"  and 
stood  still. 

The  man  turned  and  saw  his  master  gaz- 
ing at  him  with  anguished  eyes. 

"Oh,  Celestin!" 

That  was  all.  But  when  the  two  men 
moved  on,  the  master's  hand  rested  on  the 
faithful  fellow's  shoulder. 

At  last  Maitre  Paillaud's  answer  arrived. 

It  covered  six  large  sheets  of  paper.  The 
debt  of  twenty-four  thousand  pounds  was,  he 
regretted  to  say,  secured  by  promissory  notes 
correctly  drawn  up  and  signed.  As  the  only 
interest  mentioned  in  these  was  five  per  cent, 
and  the  profit  of  the  money-lender  was  evi- 
dently merged  in  the  net  amount  of  the  loan 
there  was  no  possibility  of  making  out  a  case 
to  go  before  a  Court  of  Law. 

Moreover  the  lender  had  cunningly  safe- 
guarded himself  by  making  Anthime  borrow 
in  the  guise  of  a  trader;  in  order  to  obtain  the 
protection  afforded  by  commercial  legisla- 
tion, Anthime  had  been  induced  to  declare  in 
writing  that  he  required  the  money  for  the 
development  of  some  racing  stables,  of  which 


THE  KEYNOTE  105 

he  admitted  himself  to  be  the  owner.  Maitre 
Paillaud  had  duly  made  inquiries:  the  rac- 
ing-stables did  not  exist,  as  such;  but  Anthime 
had  two  horses  in  training,  one  of  which  was 
a  stallion,  at  an  establishment  in  Seine-et- 
Oise.  It  might  yet  be  possible  to  contest  the 
legality  of  his  claim  to  be  in  business. 

The  letter  was  a  frightful  blow  to  the  un- 
happy parent.  The  words  of  the  magistrate 
recurred  to  his  memory:  "There  is  a  law 
which  prescribes  in  general  terms,  imprison- 
ment for  commercial  debt."  He  was  terri- 
fied. His  mind,  unhinged  by  suspense  and 
solitude,  pictured  Anthime  in  convict  dress, 
sitting  in  a  cell,  eating  bread  and  water. 
Nothing  milder  occurred  to  him.  Prison 
was  a  place  of  shame  and  ignominy  to  which 
no  father  could  possibly  allow  his  son  to  be 
relegated  until  he  had  done  everything  in  his 
power  to  save  him.  His  flesh  crept  on  his 
bones  at  the  bare  thought  of  a  convict's  uni- 
form! 

He  flew  to  his  desk  and  wrote  hastily  to 
Maitre  Paillaud:  "Sell  everything!  Get 
rid  of  all  the  farms!"  He  added  words  of 
uncontrolled  grief  and  poured  into  the  letter 
all  the  pain  and  misery  to  which  he  had  so 
long  denied  expression. 


106  THE  KEYNOTE 

At  length  he  grew  calmer. 

"My  property  at  Fouchaut,"  he  added,  "is 
very  valuable.  It  should  sell  well.  Lor- 
gerie,  le  Purdeau,  la  Contrie,  la  Bernegoue 
are  all  in  excellent  condition  and  will  also 
attract  purchasers.  We  should  expect  at 
least,  sixteen  thousand  pounds  for  them. 
You  may  sell  the  Marais  farms  at  a  loss,  if 
necessary,  but  we  must  save  Charviniere.  I 
cannot  let  that  go." 

Relief  came  to  him  after  he  had  posted  the 
letter.  He  felt  the  importance  of  maintain- 
ing self-control  while  such  pressing  duties  re- 
quired his  attention;  he  must  realize  the 
necessary  capital  with  the  least  possible  loss, 
and  above  all  he  must  use  discretion  and  tact 
in  breaking  the  news  to  his  unfortunate  wife, 
who  was  as  yet  in  complete  ignorance  of  the 
blow  about  to  fall. 

He  himself  was  already  somewhat  inured 
to  the  idea.  Trouble  carries  with  it  the 
strength  to  endure.  His  soul  should  rise 
above  misfortune.  He  would  accept  loss  and 
disaster.  No  complaint  should  pass  his  lips 
so  long  as  he  could  enjoy  the  blessed  light  of 
day,  and  the  good  gifts  left  over  to  him  by  a 
merciful  Providence.  But  she,  poor  lady, 
petted  and  guarded  as  she  had  been,  accus- 


THE  KEYNOTE  107 

tomed  to  countless  small  luxuries  and  allevia- 
tions of  her  suffering  condition,  how  should 
she  bear  wholesale  calamity!  How  should 
she  fail  to  be  crushed,  killed,  ground  down  by 
this  cruel  stroke  of  fortune! 

For  one  foolish  moment  he  dreamt  of  keep- 
ing her  in  ignorance,  of  surrounding  her  with 
plots  and  counterplots  to  prevent  her  ever 
learning  the  truth.  But  such  a  plan  was 
manifestly  absurd.  How  would  it  be  pos- 
sible to  conceal  from  her  such  a  change  of 
life  as  that  involved  by  the  loss  of  twenty- 
four  thousand  pounds! 

They  would  have  to  retrench  in  every  way, 
and  lead  a  frugal,  economical,  modest  exist- 
ence. 

The  news  must  be  broken  gradually.  She 
must  be  brought  imperceptibly  to  the  point 
when  she  would  guess  of  her  own  accord. 

The  task  was  a  difficult  one  to  carry 
through,  and  he  was  sadly  conscious  of  his 
own  inadequacy.  He  therefore  determined 
to  summon  to  his  aid  her  Confessor  and  her 
Doctor,  both  of  whom  must  be  accustomed 
in  the  execution  of  their  duties,  to  such  deli- 
cate functions.  He  wrote  to  both  and  begged 
them  to  come  to  the  chateau  with  the  least 
possible   delay,   on   a  matter  concerning  his 


108  THE  KEYNOTE 

wife,  which  he  would  prefer  to  explain  to 
them  in  person. 

Frederic  delivered  the  letters  in  the  village 
the  same  evening. 

Madame  des  Lourdines  had  noticed  that 
something  was  amiss  with  her  husband  ever 
since  his  journey  to  Poitiers.  He  was  subtly 
changed,  and  was  visibly  losing  flesh.  She 
could  discover  no  reason  for  this.  She  wor- 
ried over  the  thought  that  some  mortal  dis- 
ease might  be  beginning  its  insidious  attack, 
and  that  she  would  presently  be  left  alone. 
She  imagined  a  thousand  reasons,  but  never 
the  right  one.  For  there  was  nothing  to 
point  her  suspicions  towards  financial  loss. 
Landed  property  was  not  subject  to  the 
fluctuations  which  make  city  speculation  so 
precarious.  She  therefore  pondered  in  secret, 
conscious  of  vague  fears,  wondering  uneasily 
whence  danger  threatened.  Her  husband's 
demeanour  and  depression  perplexed  her. 
When  he  came  in  from  his  walks  abroad  he 
declared  he  was  fagged  out,  unequal  to  con- 
versation; his  clothes  were  invariably  in  the 
most  dreadful  condition;  he  no  longer  took 
the  trouble  to  pull  off  his  muddy  boots  before 
entering  her  room;  he  simply  threw  himself 


THE  KEYNOTE  109 

down  before  the  fire,  with  legs  outstretched 
and  chest  sunk  in,  and  remained  perfectly  si- 
lent; at  intervals  he  would  look  sadly  and  ten- 
derly at  her. 

All  of  a  sudden  she  took  fright  on  her  own 
account.  She  thought  her  condition  might 
have  changed  for  the  worse  and  that  he  was 
afraid  to  tell  her  she  was  in  danger  of  death. 
Still,  she  dared  not  ask  questions. 

One  thing  reassured  her.  She  noticed  that 
for  some  time  past  her  husband  had  devoted 
practically  his  whole  attention  to  reducing 
the  household  expenses.  He  was  quite  de- 
termined on  the  matter.  For  instance  when 
the  conversation  turned  again  on  a  subsequent 
occasion  to  the  subject  of  a  new  cow,  he  repre- 
sented gravely  to  her  that  twelve  pounds  was 
a  considerable  sum  which  he  could  not  dis- 
burse without  due  consideration.  She  was 
very  angry  and  thought  him  frankly  ridicu- 
lous, but  he  would  not  give  way.  There  were 
daily  arguments  concerning  the  thousand  and 
one  repairs  needed  at  the  beginning  of  the 
winter  to  keep  a  great  house  like  Petit-Fou- 
geray  habitable  and  in  working  order:  there 
were  slates  missing  on  the  roof,  the  cow-shed 
required  plastering;  he  had  been  obliged  to 
transfer  the  cows  to  a  wretched  stable  which 


110  THE  KEYNOTE 

had  practically  no  ventilation.  The  flooring 
of  the  hay-loft  and  the  hen-house  each 
clamoured  for  a  bare  half-day's  work,  but  he 
would  not  give  it;  and  the  aggravating  part 
was  that,  though  he  was  the  first  to  mention 
the  need,  he  did  so  in  such  a  way  as  to  make 
it  quite  clear  that  he  did  not  intend  to  do  any- 
thing.    She  was  exasperated. 

The  consideration  that  all  these  eccen- 
tricities might  be  merely  the  indication  of  ad- 
vancing age,  satisfied  her  at  last  that  he  was 
in  no  way  troubled  about  her  health,  and 
in  her  selfish  relief,  her  spirit  rose  aggres- 
sive. 

"Timothee,  what  does  all  this  mean?  You 
must  really  explain  yourself.  The  netting 
of  the  chicken-run  is  full  of  holes  and  you  re- 
fuse to  repair  it.     It  isn't  common-sense  I" 

He  smiled  absently  at  her  but  made  no  an- 
swer, for  he  was  carrying  out  his  idea  of  set- 
ting her  brain  to  work,  and  bringing  her  to 
the  point  of  guessing. 

"You  won't?"  she  repeated  in  tones  almost 
threatening,  for  her  temper  was  rising  at  her 
repeated  failures  to  dominate  where  hitherto 
her  will  had  been  law.  She  was  helpless  be- 
fore this  barrier  of  smiles  and  gentleness. 
"Do  you  refuse?" 


THE  KEYNOTE  111 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  nodded  his  head 
and  sighed. 

"On  account  of  the  expense?"  she  insisted, 
ironically. 

"Yes." 

She  said  no  more,  but  looked  intently  at 
him.  An  idea  came  to  her — a  horrifying  idea 
which  seemed  to  offer  a  definite  solution  of 
the  problem:  Timothee's  mind  must  be  af- 
fected! 

She  turned  very  white;  terror  took  posses- 
sion of  her,  and  with  a  sudden  recollection 
that  insane  people  must  be  humoured,  she  re- 
plied in  quavering  tones — 

"I  dare  say  you  are  right,  Timothee.  Per- 
haps it  is  better  so.     Yes,  you  are  right." 

It  was  his  turn  to  stare.  He  looked  at  her 
in  evident  surprise. 

That  evening  she  sent  for  all  the  servants 
in  turn  and  proceeded  to  question  them,  in 
mortal  fright  of  hearing  her  suspicions  con- 
firmed. Perrine  came  first,  and  then  Estelle. 
She  asked  them  whether  they  had  noticed 
anything  odd  about  their  master,  anything  un- 
usual in  his  manner  or  speech. 

"Tell  me  everything.  Don't  be  afraid. 
You  understand,  I  am  sure,  the  sort  of  thing 


112  THE  KEYNOTE 

I  mean.  I  ask  in  his  own  interest,  in  fact  in 
the  interest  of  us  all  T' 

The  maids  had  certainly  observed  that  for 
some  time  past  their  master  had  been  unlike 
himself,  but  they  could  give  no  definite  in- 
stance to  support  their  impression  except  that 
Estelle  had  overheard  him  talking  to  him- 
self in  his  own  room. 

"What  did  he  say?  Of  course  you  listened. 
Quite  right  too!  Come,  let  me  hear!  What 
did  he  talk  about?" 

"Madame,  he  said  ...  he  said  ...  I 
don't  know  what  he  said  .  .  ." 

Frederic  scratched  his  head  and  opined  that 
Monsieur  must  be  very  ill.  He  related  in 
full  the  scene  when  his  master  came  to  wake 
him  in  the  night  looking  perfectly  ghastly, 
and  ordered  him  to  harness  the  mare  at  3  A.  M. 
"In  the  Russian  campaign  I  saw  men  who 
had  lain  out  in  the  snow  all  night,  but 
Madame,  I  never  saw  one  with  such  a  deathly 
countenance  as  Master's." 

She  wrung  her  hands  desperately. 

"Good  Heavens!  And  did  he  speak  dur- 
ing the  drive,  Frederic?" 

"Not  a  word,  Madame.  He  generally 
chats  all  the  way,  but  that  day  I  am  sure  he 
must  have  been  feeling  very  bad." 


THE  KEYNOTE  113 

"And  on  the  way  back?" 

"Never  a  word." 

Celestin  said  his  master  had  come  up  to 
him  in  the  market-place  "looking  very  queer," 
and  that  quite  lately  when  they  were  walk- 
ing together  in  the  meadow,  he  had  called  out 
"Celestin!"  and  said  nothing  more,  but  looked 
as  if  he  was  on  the  verge  of  tears. 

She  sent  them  all  away.  "God  help  us!" 
she  groaned,  and  decided  to  send  for  the  doc- 
tor. 

The  next  day,  about  three  o'clock,  she  was 
finishing  a  note  to  Doctor  Lancier,  when  she 
heard  the  sound  of  wheels  in  the  courtyard. 
"Dear,  dear,  I  do  hope  it  is  not  a  visitor," 
she  muttered. 

Estelle  ran  up  and  announced  that  the  doc- 
tor was  below. 

"The  doctor!  Did  you  say  the  doctor? 
Are  you  sure?  This  is  providential.  Run 
quick  and  ask  him  to  come  up.  Say  I  am 
waiting.     Go  on,  be  quick,  child  .  .  ." 

"But,  Madame,  he  is  talking  to  Monsieur 
in  the  garden." 

"Talking  to  Monsieur  in  the  garden? 
Well,  better  so,  perhaps.  The  doctor  is  sure 
to  notice  anything  odd.     How  curious  that  I 


114  THE  KEYNOTE 

should  have  guessed.  Good  Heavens,  what 
a  calamity!  Estelle,  beat  up  those  cushions. 
Draw  the  curtains  further  back — there,  there, 
that  will  do.  You  can  go,  but  leave  the  door 
open." 

Her  hypothesis  of  the  insanity  of  her  hus- 
band had  grown  in  the  course  of  a  few  hours 
to  positive  certainty. 

She  sat  with  clasped  hands,  feverishly  alive 
to  every  sound.  The  doctor  was  very  long 
in  coming  up.  At  last  she  heard  his  foot- 
step on  the  stairs.     He  was  alone. 

The  moment  she  caught  sight  of  him  ap- 
proaching slowly,  with  bent  head,  rubbing  his 
hands  absently,  she  said  to  herself:  "He  has 
noticed  something!" 

The  doctor  paused  a  moment  at  the  door, 
ruffling  up  with  his  fingers  the  locks  of  hair 
which  the  pressure  of  his  hat  had  caused  to 
adhere  too  closely  to  his  hot  forehead.  He 
was  a  bright-complexioned,  well-preserved 
old  man,  looking  in  his  long  redingote  as  if 
he  had  stepped  out  of  a  Moliere  play.  His 
large  gentle  blue  eyes  habitually  watered  a 
little  behind  his  glasses.  He  was  wiping 
them  now,  as  he  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"May  I  come  in,  dear  lady?" 


THE  KEYNOTE  115 

She  nodded,  trying  to  smile.  "Yes,  yes, 
please  do." 

His  glasses  flashed  in  the  light. 

"I  know  I  was  not  expected  to-day,  but  I 
thought  I  would  just  look  in,"  he  said  pleas- 
antly as  he  picked  his  way  daintily  across 
the  room.  He  pursed  his  lips  and  looked 
anxiously  at  a  spot  on  the  back  of  his  hand. 
"I  had  a  few  visits  to  pay  in  the  near  neigh- 
bourhood, so  it  occurred  to  me  I  might  in- 
quire after  your  health.  Have  I  done  wrong, 
Madame?" 

He  sat  down. 

"On  the  contrary,  Doctor,  it  is  too  kind  of 
you.  I  am  delighted  to  see  you  ...  in  fact 
.  .  .  "  She  halted  in  her  speech.  He 
looked  as  if  something  had  happened,  and 
the  very  sound  of  his  voice  gave  her  a  pre- 
sentiment that  he  was  about  to  broach  the  sub- 
ject of  her  husband. 

He  proceeded  first  of  all  with  his  usual  ex- 
amination, pulled  out  his  watch  and  felt  her 
pulse,  listened  to  heart  and  chest. 

"Quite  satisfactory,"  he  pronounced,  put- 
ting his  stethoscope  back  into  his  hat.  "As 
regards  your  condition,  everything  is  as  I 
should  wish;  still  .  .  ." 

As  he  sat  facing  her,  his  raised  eyebrows 


116  THE  KEYNOTE 

made  a  straight  black  line  across  his  fore- 
head, and  he  gazed  moodily  into  her  counte- 
nance, cracking  his  finger-joints  the  while. 

"Still,  the  bad  weather  is  coming  on,  dear 
lady.  You  must  neglect  no  precaution;  more 
especially,  being  of  a  somewhat  nervous 
temperament,  you  must  guard  against  worry 
or  anticipation  of  trouble — of  course  we  all 
have  our  share  of  difficulties,  and  we  manage 
to  win  through  somehow.  Man,  dearest  lady, 
is,  so  to  speak,  a  battlefield  upon  which  two 
forces  are  incessantly  at  war:  reason,  and  the 
nerves!  Allow  reason  to  be  the  victor!  To 
come  down  to  the  personal  application  of  my 
little  sermon,  you  are  I  believe  in  sufficiently 
good  health  to  withstand  a  mental  shock — 
even  a  severe  one,  eh?" 

"Doctor!"  she  interrupted  in  a  strangled 
voice:  she  guessed  that  he  was  endeavouring 
to  prepare  her  for  bad  news. 

He  continued  however  without  seeming  to 
notice  her  exclamation. 

"Therefore  self-confidence  and  serenity, 
dear  friend,  are  the  supreme  counsel  of 
wisdom  and  science.  You  quite  under- 
stand?" 

"Doctor!"  she  cried  again,  fixing  glitter- 
ing eyes  on  the  old  man,  "you  saw  my  hus- 


THE  KEYNOTE  117 

band  just  now — you  have  been  talking  to 
him!" 

Her  tones  expressed  such  poignant  distress 
that  the  doctor  was  struck  dumb  for  a  mo- 
ment.    Then  he  continued  impressively — 

"That  is  so.  I  have  been  talking  to  Mon- 
sieur des  Lourdines." 

"What  did  he  say  to  you?" 

"Come,  come,  dear  lady,  many  subjects 
were  touched  upon.  It  is  difficult  to  give  an 
accurate  report.  Monsieur  des  Lourdines  did 
me  the  honour  of  confiding  certain  business 
matters  to  me." 

"Did  his  manner  strike  you  as  peculiar  in 
any  way?  or  his  speech?" 

"I  don't  quite  understand  you.  I  no- 
ticed nothing  in  particular." 

"You  won't  tell  me!  Yet  I  feel  sure  you 
have  seen  it,  but  perhaps  you  are  not  quite 
certain.  Do,  for  God's  sake,  tell  me  the 
truth  I" 

Both  fell  silent.  Then,  quite  suddenly,  she 
burst  into  tears. 

"Doctor,  Doctor,  I  am  so  wretched!  He 
has  frightened  me  so  lately — " 

She  broke  into  an  agitated  narrative  of  all 
the  recent  happenings:  of  his  departure  in 
the  middle  of  the  night,  his  strange  demean- 


118  THE  KEYNOTE 

our,  his  suddenly  developed  mania  for 
economy. 

"And,  since  that  unhappy  market  day,"  she 
whimpered,  "he  stays  much  longer  than  usual 
with  me  in  the  evenings — he  sits  in  the 
chimney  corner  and  says  never  a  word,  and 
looks  ghastly.  I  wondered  and  wondered 
what  could  be  the  matter — and  then  yester- 
day ...  all  of  a  sudden  ...  I  guessed!  I 
daren't  put  it  into  words,  it  is  so  awful!  I  be- 
lieve his  mind  is  affected — do  you  know  what 
I  mean?     I  fear  .  .  ." 

She  sobbed  bitterly. 

Dr.  Lancier  watched  her  silently.  When 
she  raised  her  tear-stained  eyes  to  his,  he  rose 
and  came  towards  her.  "What  in  the  world 
am  I  to  say?"  he  murmured  under  his  breath. 

He  bent  over  her,  resting  his  hands  on  the 
table  in  a  purposely  confidential  attitude  pe- 
culiarly impressive  under  the  circumstances. 

"Madame,  I  will  stake  my  professional  rep- 
utation on  the  perfect  stability  of  Monsieur  des 
Lourdines'  mind,"  he  pronounced  firmly, 
slowly,  gravely.  "Monsieur  des  Lourdines  is 
absolutely  sane." 

The  verdict  so  solemnly  given  should  have 
reassured  her,  but  a  cold  shiver  ran  down  her 
back.     She  stared  dumbly  into  his  face.     For 


THE  KEYNOTE  119 

now  another  fear  forced  itself  upon  her;  a 
vague,  unnamed  terror  of  something,  she  knew 
not  what,  something  that  showed  itself  in  his 
eyes :  certainly  he  knew  of  some  cause  for  un- 
easiness or  distress. 

His  final  counsel  reached  her  ears,  but  not 
her  understanding;  she  uttered  a  few  feeble 
words  in  response  to  his  leave-taking  and 
watched  him  depart  as  if  in  a  dream. 

The  next  day  another  visitor  was  an- 
nounced: Father  Placide  arrived  in  the  after- 
noon. The  worthy  priest  had  been  her  con- 
fessor for  ten  years.  He  was  a  portly,  jovial- 
looking  man,  fond  of  an  occasional  glass  of 
sound  wine,  and  not  averse  to  a  gossip  with 
Monsieur  des  Lourdines  over  the  grapes  and 
walnuts.  On  this  particular  day,  Monsieur 
des  Lourdines  was  watching  for  him,  and  they 
had  a  lengthened  conversation  in  the  garden. 
Madame  des  Lourdines  saw  them  and  de- 
spatched Estelle  on  some  trivial  errand,  to  try 
and  overhear  the  subject  of  their  talk.  But 
they  saw  her  coming  and  moved  away. 

At  last,  Father  Placide  came  up.  He  was 
alone. 

He  was  a  Capuchin,  with  huge  sandalled 
feet  and  a  heavy  beard. 


120  THE  KEYNOTE 

Madame  des  Lourdines  invited  him  to  sit 
near  her  and  asked  the  news  of  the  parish. 
He  replied  in  a  constrained  manner,  and  she 
noticed  the  worried  expression  of  his  face  as 
he  tugged  at  his  beard. 

He  made  the  same  excuse  as  the  doctor,  for 
visiting  her  without  being  summoned.  He 
had  been  walking  in  the  vicinity.  She  offered 
some  refreshment,  and  he  refused  with  a 
marked  air  of  self-denial.  He  talked  to  her 
on  sacred  subjects,  exhorted  her  to  calmness, 
patience,  and  resignation,  in  the  terms  he  had 
used  so  often  before;  he  perceived  that  custom 
had  deprived  them  of  their  full  effect,  so  he 
brought  in  a  few  quotations  from  the  Imita- 
tion, reminding  her  that  affliction  is  advan- 
tageous to  the  soul,  and  that  the  affections 
must  not  be  centred  on  the  things  of  this 
world. 

He  spoke  at  some  length,  getting  nearer  and 
nearer  to  his  subject,  and  striving  to  arm  her 
for  the  shock  he  must  presently  administer. 

"God  has  hitherto  endowed  you  plentifully 
with  wealth,  my  dear  Sister.  He  might  pres- 
ently see  fit  to  deprive  you  of  it;  but  the  advan- 
tages of  this  world  are  as  nothing;  when  God 
in  His  infinite  wisdom  takes  them  from  us, 


THE  KEYNOTE  121 

He  thereby  delivers  us  from  possible  occasion 
of  sin." 

His  speech  was  punctuated  by  heavy  sighs 
which  made  his  beard  tremble. 

At  his  words  she  began,  like  yesterday,  to 
apprehend  some  danger,  to  feel  that  some  peril 
was  coming  nearer,  was  tightening  its  grasp 
upon  her,  seeking  to  crush  her. 

Again,  she  was  seized  with  terror! 

"Father,  Father,  I  am  afraid!" 

The  monk  straightened  his  broad  back. 
He  drew  from  his  capacious  pocket  a  little 
medal  and  handed  it  to  her. 

"I  have  been  thinking  much  of  you,  my 
dear  Sister,"  he  said.  "Take  this,  and  when 
you  retire  to-night,  hang  it  around  your  neck. 
Pray — pray — pray — much  and  often!" 

The  same  evening  at  the  usual  hour,  Mon- 
sieur des  Lourdines  came  and  sat  himself  down 
near  the  fire.  He  seemed  exhausted.  He  lay 
hunched  up  in  the  big  chair,  his  head  resting 
on  the  cushion,  his  legs,  in  their  muddy  top 
boots,  extended  to  the  warmth.  The  lamps 
had  not  been  lighted.  Husband  and  wife  sat 
wrapped  in  thought,  neither  suggesting  that 
the  growing  darkness  should  be  dispelled. 


122  THE  KEYNOTE 

It  was  the  dreamy  hour  of  the  dying  day, 
when  the  window  glimmers  blue  against  the 
fading  sky,  when  the  only  brilliant  point  in 
the  slumberous  surroundings  is  some  brass 
handle,  or  candlestick,  reflecting  the  firelight. 
A  belated  bee  buzzed,  seeking  honey  in  the 
deceptive  roses  of  the  chintz  curtain.  Out- 
side, the  green  of  the  grass  and  trees  slowly 
deepened  to  black;  a  blackbird  piped  in  the 
bushes  below,  as  it  shook  the  damp  leaves 
from  its  raven  wings. 

Madame  des  Lourdines  sat  motionless,  in- 
visible in  her  corner. 

"Timothee,"  she  ventured  presently, 
"Bourasseau,  the  timber  merchant,  came  this 
evening  to  tender  for  the  elm  we  pulled  down. 
You  were  out.     I  did  not  accept  his  offer." 

"That  was  a  mistake,  Emilie. ' 

"But  why?  Winter  is  coming  on,  and  we 
have  not  a  very  large  store  of  wood." 

A  pause. 

"We  are  more  in  need  of  cash  than  fire- 
wood." 

Another  pause. 

"Of  cash?"  repeated  Madame  des  Lour- 
dines, presently,  in  faint  tones. 

"Yes,  my  dear." 

Again  they  sat  silent. 


THE  KEYNOTE  123 

"Timothee!"  she  burst  out  suddenly,  "what 
is  the  meaning  of  all  this?  There  is  some 
mystery.  You  are  concealing  something  from 
me.  I  know,  I  feel,  there  is  disaster  in  the 
air!  Is  it  a  question  of  money?  Timothee, 
you  must  tell  me!" 

Her  teeth  chattered. 

He  could  not  reply,  for  his  lips  quivered 
and  he  was  not  master  of  his  voice. 

"We  must  have  had  losses!  Tell  me!  for 
pity's  sake  let  me  know  everything!  Surely, 
surely,  things  cannot  be  so  bad  as  you  seem  to 
think!" 

Still  he  answered  nothing.  He  longed  to 
speak,  but  could  not  find  words.  He  left  his 
chair  and  moved  nearer  to  her. 

When  she  saw  him  coming,  she  threw  out 
her  arms,  as  if  to  ward  him  off.  "Not  ruined, 
Timothee?  .  .  ." 

"No;  no  dear!"  he  cried,  seizing  her  icy 
hands  and  striving  to  warm  them  in  his  breast; 
"we  are  not  ruined,  but  listen,  listen,  Emilie, 
my  dearest  .  .  ." 

"We  are  ruined!  I  know  it!  I  feel  it! 
I  will  know!  I  can  be  brave,"  she  persisted, 
struggling  to  disengage  herself  from  his  grasp. 

"No,"  he  repeated;  but  his  tone  was  not 
convincing:  it  was  gloomy  and  wretched. 


124  THE  KEYNOTE 

"What  then?"  she  panted. 

She  had  risen  and  they  now  stood  face  to 
face,  but  the  room  was  so  dark  that  they  could 
not  distinguish  each  other's  features. 

"For  God's  sake,  let  me  speak,  Emilie!  be 
calm!" 

"Ah  .  .  ."  she  moaned  feebly,  her  momen- 
tary strength  suddenly  deserting  her;  her 
gaze  travelled  beyond  him  and  appeared  to 
rest  upon  an  object  invisible  to  him:  "An- 
thime!"  she  breathed. 

Des  Lourdines  remained  silent,  but  his  hold 
upon  her  flaccid  fingers  tightened. 

"Anthime!"  she  shrieked,  heart-brokenly. 
"It  is  Anthime!     I  know  it!     Oh,  my  God!" 

And  she  fell  heavily  to  the  ground. 

When  the  servants  rushed  in,  scared  by 
the  frantic  pealing  of  the  bell,  they  could  but 
loosen  her  clothing  and  carry  her  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  heat  of  the  room  was  stifling.  A 
fire  had  been  burning  there  night 
and  day  for  the  last  fortnight.  In  a 
corner  near  the  glimmering  night-light,  a 
Sister  of  Charity  sat  with  Perrine  and  Estelle, 
reciting  the  Rosary.  At  short  intervals  the 
nun  rose  and  renewed  the  cooling  compresses 
on  the  brow  of  the  sick  woman. 

Earlier  in  the  afternoon  the  parish  priest 
had  administered  the  Last  Sacraments.  There 
was  no  further  hope  of  recovery.  The  stroke, 
on  that  fatal  afternoon,  had  involved  the 
whole  body  and  all  the  faculties  in  total  paral- 
ysis. As  Perrine  sobbingly  declared,  her  poor 
mistress  was  a  living  corpse  lying  as  one  cruci- 
fied on  the  bed. 

The  hands  of  the  clock  indicated  the  hour 
of  nine.     The  striking  part  had  been  silenced. 

Out  of  doors  a  gale  shook  the  trees  and  rat- 
tled the  windows.  Rain  and  hail  dashed 
against  the  window-panes  and  chased  each 
other  down  the  glass ;  the  women  listened  fear- 

125 


126  THE  KEYNOTE 

fully  to  the  shriek  of  the  wind  in  the  chimney, 
while  their  lips  murmured :  "Blessed  art  Thou 
amongst  women,  and  blessed  .  .  ." 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  could  not  be  in- 
duced to  leave  the  bedside.  The  past  weeks 
had  made  an  old  man  of  him.  Vainly  the 
doctor  urged  him  to  spare  himself  and  take 
rest;  advice  availed  nothing.  In  the  torment 
and  turmoil  of  his  mind,  he  had  become  con- 
vinced that  he  was  guilty  of  his  wife's  death ; 
remorse  ravaged  him  and  gnawed  at  the  small 
amount  of  vitality  left  within  him. 

He  lay,  crushed  and  broken,  pressing  his 
brow  into  the  pillow,  beseeching  Heaven  for 
mercy,  gazing  wretchedly  at  the  human  wreck- 
age before  him,  staring  at  every  sound. 

His  son  had  not  yet  arrived. 

Anthime  had  been  summoned  immediately 
after  the  seizure.  Had  he  started  at  once, 
he  ought  to  have  been  home  by  now.  His 
moral  responsibility  for  the  present  conditions 
made  it  doubly  monstrous  that  his  place  by  his 
mother's  death-bed  should  remain  untenanted. 
She  had  forgiven  him.  Before  the  power  of 
speech  left  her  she  had  asked  for  him  several 
times. 

The  unhappy  husband  could  not  bring  him- 
self to  abandon  hope.     He  watched  and  lis- 


THE  KEYNOTE  127 

tened,  feeling  that  the  appearance  of  a  son 
so  idolized  might  even  yet  work  the  miracle  of 
a  cure.  But  his  features  clouded  over  as  each 
fresh  sound  proved  a  disappointment;  noth- 
ing stirred  but  the  wind  in  the  trees,  a  falling 
slate,  or  a  creaking  shutter. 

Doctor  Lancier  entered,  came  to  the  side  of 
the  dying  woman,  and  felt  her  pulse  without 
raising  her  hand  from  the  sheet.  Monsieur 
des  Lourdines  watched  his  every  move- 
ment intently.  He  saw  him  shrug  his  shoul- 
ders slightly  and  turn  to  stir  some  medicine 
with  a  spoon. 

"Master!  Master!"  panted  a  voice  at  the 
door,  "there's  a  carriage  in  the  avenue!  It 
is  driving  up  to  the  door!" 

"A  carriage?" 

"I  saw  the  lights." 

He  rose,  and  turning  giddy,  steadied  him- 
self by  the  bed-post. 

"Control  yourself,  I  beg  of  you,"  inter- 
posed the  doctor  in  a  low  voice.  "Would  you 
like  me  to  go  with  you?" 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  was  too  breath- 
less to  answer,  but  he  shook  his  head.  He 
pulled  himself  together  with  a  struggle  and 
moved  slowly  to  the  door.  The  effort  was 
severe.     It  looked  miles  away! 


128  THE  KEYNOTE 

In  the  passage  he  stopped  again  to  gather 
breath.  At  the  foot  of  the  staircase  he  found 
the  hall  in  complete  darkness.  He  shivered 
and  dared  not  move. 

The  front  door  had  already  been  thrown 
open,  and  the  wind  and  rain  swirled  in 
through  the  entrance.  He  stood  motionless, 
trying  to  see  what  was  happening.  Outside, 
Celestin's  and  Frederic's  lanterns  bobbed  up 
and  down  in  the  effort  to  throw  light  on  the 
scene.  At  length  two  powerful  lamps  shone 
through  the  darkness;  there  was  a  jingle  of 
harness,  steam  rose  in  clouds  from  the  heav- 
ing flanks  of  a  pair  of  horses,  and  a  travelling 
carriage  drew  up  at  the  steps. 

The  door  was  opened  hurriedly,  a  grey- 
hound jumped  out,  followed  more  slowly  by 
the  head  and  shoulders  of  a  tall  man,  and 
Anthime — Anthime  stood  before  his  father. 
Monsieur  des  Lourdines  stared  stupidly; 
everything  swam  before  his  eyes;  he  could 
see  the  glistening  of  wet  leather,  the  trem- 
bling of  tired  horses'  legs,  but  when  he  looked 
upon  his  son's  features  he  only  realized  that 
they  belonged  to  the  man  who  had  ruined  his 
father  and  killed  his  mother.  He  forgot  that 
he  had  summoned  him  imperatively  to  his 


THE  KEYNOTE  129 

side,  he  just  gazed  in  exhausted  silence,  hear- 
ing nothing  but  the  beating  of  his  own  heart. 

The  greyhound  trotted  about  the  hall,  in- 
vestigating the  unknown  scene,  his  claws 
clicking  on  the  hard  tiles. 

"To  heel,  Michka!"  ordered  Anthime, 
standing  on  the  door-mat.  "Frederic,  take 
my  dog  round  to  the  stables!  Where  is  my 
father?  Is  he  upstairs?"  he  added,  lowering 
his  voice. 

"Anthime!"  was  ejaculated  weakly,  close 
by  in  the  darkness. 

"Father!"  exclaimed  Anthime,  starting. 
He  put  out  his  hands  gropingly.  They  closed 
on  a  pair  of  thin,  bowed  shoulders. 

"How  is  she?"  he  asked.  "What  is  the  mat- 
ter with  her?    Your  letter  gave  no  details." 

At  that  moment  Celestin  passed  through 
the  hall  with  the  luggage  on  his  back  and  a 
lantern  in  his  hand.  By  its  rays  Anthime  saw 
the  terrible  fixed  look  of  misery  in  his  father's 
eyes. 

"Father!  Father!  Speak!  For  God's 
sake  say  something!" 

He  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  his 
mother  was  dead.  Monsieur  des  Lourdines 
disengaged  himself  gently  from  his  son's  grasp, 


130  THE  KEYNOTE 

wrung  his  hands,  and  turned  in  the  direction 
of  the  sick-room. 

The  apartment  was  over-heated  and  smelt 
strongly  of  ether.  The  unaccustomed  odour 
and  the  mysterious  gloom  about  the  curtained 
bed  startled  Anthime;  he  paused  for  a  mo- 
ment. A  log  of  wood  crackled  on  the  hearth 
and  shot  up  a  long  flame  which  lighted  up 
the  inert  form  lying  among  the  pillows. 

"Mother!"  he  hurried  forward  and  fell  on 
his  knees  at  the  bedside,  pressing  his  lips  to 
the  hand  nearest  to  him. 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  followed  his  son's 
movements  with  vacant  eyes.  Anthime  rose  to 
his  feet  and  placed  himself  where  the  rays  of 
the  lamp,  which  the  nun  held  up,  fell  on  his 
face,  in  the  hope  of  awakening  the  dying  wom- 
an's attention. 

"Mother  dearest!" 

Her  sunken  lids  remained  half-closed  over 
the  glazing  eyes. 

"Emilie!"  urged  Monsieur  des  Lourdines, 
leaning  over  her,  "Emilie !  Here  is  Anthime ! 
Your  own  boy !     He  has  come  back  to  us !" 

She  died  a  few  hours  later,  just  as  the  dawn 
broke. 


THE  KEYNOTE  131 

Anthime  sat  alone  in  his  own  room,  a  large 
chamber  from  the  walls  of  which  hung  heads 
of  wild  boar  and  roe-deer,  and  a  huntsman's 
horn.  He  was  racked  by  the  conviction  that 
his  mother's  death  was  the  direct  consequence 
of  the  stroke  his  own  misdeeds  had  originally 
brought  on;  and  the  grown  man,  whose  life 
had  hitherto  been  one  long  pursuit  of  pleas- 
ure, who  had  never  yet  experienced  the  heavy 
hand  of  sorrow,  was  weeping.  Great,  hot 
tears  coursed  down  his  cheeks,  like  those 
of  a  child  who  seeks  its  mother  and  finds  her 
not.  His  grief  was  sincere  enough,  but  super- 
ficial and  unlikely  to  work  any  enduring 
change  in  his  character. 

The  sight  of  death  had  shaken  him  pro- 
foundly. He  had  always  dreaded  to  be 
brought  face  to  face  with  it. 

He  rested  his  forehead  on  his  hand,  and 
while  his  right  hand  played  absently  with  a 
china  saucer  the  tears  flowed  unchecked.  He 
had  been  present  at  his  Aunt  Desiree's  death, 
years  ago,  when  he  was  a  boy  of  ten.  He  had 
thrown  himself  wildly  on  the  bed  in  a 
paroxysm  of  terror  and  grief,  but  when  his 
parents  tried  to  send  him  out  of  the  room,  he 
refused  to  leave;  Frederic  had  touched  him 
on  the  shoulder  and  said:     "Come  and  see  the 


132  THE  KEYNOTE 

horses,  Master  Anthime,"  still  he  would  not 
go.  Suddenly  he  saw  his  aunt's  mouth  fall 
open  and  her  cheeks  turn  grey.  He  screamed. 
The  exhausting  night  of  emotion  he  had 
just  passed  through  merged  itself  into  that 
nightmare  of  days  and  nights  spent  on  the 
journey  from  Paris;  it  seemed  to  be  the  con- 
clusion of  it.  Nevertheless,  he  was  harassed 
by  remorse.  On  that  evening  a  week  ago, 
when  his  servant  had  followed  him  to  the  Club 
to  hand  him  a  letter  from  his  father,  marked 
"Urgent,"  containing  only  two  lines :  "Come 
home  at  once.  Your  mother  is  dangerously 
ill,"  he  had  been  playing  baccarat  with  several 
companions,  notably  his  great  friend,  Prince 
Stemof.  He  had  not  thrown  down  the  cards 
immediately,  but  had  continued  playing,  be- 
cause he  was  losing  and  did  not  care  to  lay 
himself  open  to  the  suspicion  that  he  was  glad 
of  a  pretext  for  saving  the  rest  of  the  money  in 
his  pockets. 

But  he  hated  to  suffer,  and  never  allowed 
himself  to  do  so  if  he  could  possibly  help  it; 
therefore,  true  to  his  nature,  he  deliberately 
turned  his  thoughts  from  their  present  channel. 
He  took  off  his  coat  and  dipped  his  face  in 


THE  KEYNOTE  133 

cold  water.  The  women  must  have  finished 
their  ghoulish  work,  and  he  wished  to  re- 
turn to  his  mother's  side.  He  hastily  ran  a 
comb  through  his  thick  curly  hair  and  put  on 
a  dark  coat  which  fitted  tightly  to  his  tall  well- 
knit  figure.  He  dried  his  eyes  carefully  and 
went  down. 

He  found  her  stretched  upon  the  bed,  robed 
in  white  satin,  her  hair  veiled  in  the  black 
lace  she  had  habitually  worn  when  alive; 
around  the  hands  folded  upon  her  breast  were 
twined  the  beads  of  a  rosary.  The  features 
were  set  and  swollen ;  they  did  not  bear  the  im- 
press of  either  peace  or  sleep.  Even  at  this 
supreme  moment,  when  his  knees  shook  at 
the  sight  of  his  mother  in  death,  he  was  struck 
by  his  father's  face.  The  broad  light  of  day 
falling  directly  upon  it  as  he  sat  motionless 
by  the  window,  revealed  fully  the  ravages  in- 
flicted by  grief  and  anxiety.  Anthime  was 
horribly  shocked. 

At  that  moment  the  servants  entered,  ac- 
companied by  some  of  the  neighbours,  among 
whom  was  Joseph,  the  weaver,  who  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  spending  his  evenings  with 
Estelle  and  Perrine. 


134  THE  KEYNOTE 

The  window  was  wide  open,  letting  in  a 
current  of  air,  cooled  and  sweetened  by  the 
recent  rain. 

According  to  the  custom  of  the  country 
the  late  lady  of  the  chateau  was  to  lie  in  state, 
for  the  villagers  to  pay  the  last  homage  to 
her  mortal  remains.  But  in  order  to  facilitate 
the  passing  of  the  crowd,  she  was  to  be  re- 
moved to  a  couch  specially  prepared  in  a  large 
chamber  on  the  ground  floor. 

The  moment  had  arrived.  The  nun  ap- 
proached the  bed  and  raised  the  sides  of  the 
sheet,  wrapping  them  carefully  round  the 
body;  the  spectators  drew  back,  watching. 

Jealous  of  their  rights,  Perrine  and  the  do- 
mestic ranking  next  to  her  in  the  household 
went  at  once  to  the  feet,  and  proceeded  to 
twist  the  sheet  into  a  rope;  Frederic  also  ad- 
vanced. 

"No!"  broke  in  Monsieur  des  Lourdines 
unexpectedly,  pointing  to  the  head  of  the  bed. 
"No!     Let  Anthime  do  his  duty!'' 

Anthime  started  and  looked  appealingly, 
first  at  his  father,  then  at  the  women  stand- 
ing ready  at  their  post. 

There  was  no  response.  He  turned  a  grey- 
ish white  and  moved  to  take  up  his  burden. 

He  realized  vaguely  that  it  might  be  fitting 


THE  KEYNOTE  135 

he  should  share  in  the  grisly  duty  of  bearing 
his  mother's  form  to  her  lying-in-state;  but 
the  impression  produced  upon  him  was  fright- 
ful. His  limbs  shook  under  him  and  all  his 
powers  of  self-control  were  called  forth  in 
the  effort  to  keep  from  falling.  The  people 
followed  close  behind,  reciting  prayers. 

The  descent  of  the  staircase  was  accom- 
plished with  great  difficulty. 

Anthime  had  to  feel  his  way  from  step  to 
step,  like  a  blind  man.  His  heavy  footfalls 
gave  out  a  muffled  sound;  he  could  only  ad- 
vance by  leaning  backward,  straining  to  up- 
hold the  weight  in  his  arms.  The  sweat  broke 
out  on  his  brow  and  drenched  his  cheeks. 
Every  now  and  then,  despite  his  strenuous  ef- 
forts, the  shoulders  of  the  mother  who  had 
borne  him,  bumped  with  a  hollow  sound  upon 
a  step.  He  strove  not  to  look  at  that  which 
he  carried,  to  turn  his  thoughts  from  the 
ghastly  reality,  but  it  was  no  use.  There  was 
a  slight  opening  in  the  sheet  above  the  head, 
and  through  it  a  tuft  of  grey  hair  had  strayed  I 

At  one  moment  he  turned  deathly  sick  and 
was  forced  to  lean  against  the  wall ;  so  over- 
come was  he  that  he  neither  saw  nor  heard 
warm-hearted  little  Estelle,  who  hovered 
about  him  deeply  concerned,  ready  to  assist 


136  THE  KEYNOTE 

if  necessary,  exclaiming  at  intervals:  "Oh, 
Monsieur  Anthime!  Shall  you  ever  manage 
it  .  .  .  Are  you  faint,  Monsieur  Anthime? 
.  .  .  You   are   so   pale  .  .  .  Can  you   do   it 

.  .  .?" 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  walking  behind, 
grieved  in  all  his  tender  heart  at  the  torture 
he  had  inflicted  upon  his  son,  but  felt  him- 
self in  some  inexplicable  manner  the  help- 
less instrument  of  the  Divine  Wrath. 


PART  II 


CHAPTER  IX 

DECEMBER  had  laid  its  dreary 
grasp  upon  the  country  round.  Since 
the  day  of  the  funeral,  two  weeks 
earlier,  rain  had  poured  down  continuously. 
The  sluicing  murmur  of  water  was  omnipres- 
ent: water  running  underfoot,  water  falling 
overhead,  water  dropping  from  trees  and 
eaves.  No  other  sound,  save  that  of  the 
roughly  swirling  wind,  was  to  be  heard  in  the 
lonely  land. 

Petit-Fougeray  had  taken  on  its  winter 
cloak.  Rivulets  of  damp  trickled  down  the 
brick  walls,  leaving  black  smudges  in  their 
track;  sodden  brambles  and  creepers,  detached 
from  their  support  by  boisterous  squalls, 
trailed  untidily  on  the  muddy  earth  beneath. 
The  windows  of  the  chateau  remained  shut. 
Unbroken  silence  had  reigned  supreme  and  de- 
pressing, since  the  moment  when  the  funeral 
procession  wound  its  way  through  the  avenue 
to  the  mournful  chanting  of  priests  and 
acolytes.     Almost  it  seemed  as  if  the  guests 

139 


140  THE  KEYNOTE 

had  not  yet  returned  from  the  ceremony,  so 
tense  was  the  universal  hush.  This  morning, 
however,  the  strokes  of  an  axe  wielded  by 
Celestin  in  the  task  of  stripping  the  elm  of  its 
branches,  gave  some  promise  of  life  and 
movement. 

When  Anthime  awoke,  another  day  of 
gloom  and  greyness  was  forcing  its  way 
through  the  open  casement,  seeking  to  dull 
the  cheerful  roses  on  the  flowered  chintz  cur- 
tains. He  choked  back  a  yawn,  and  clasping 
his  hands  under  his  head,  lay  watching 
Michka,  who  at  the  first  sign  of  notice  from 
his  master  had  risen  from  his  rug  and  now 
laid  his  nose  on  the  bed,  wagging  his  tail. 

"What  are  you  thinking  about,  old  boy?" 
inquired  Anthime,  smiling  lazily  at  the  faith- 
ful hound. 

The  greyhound  whined  plaintively,  reply- 
ing in  dog-language:  "I  am  thinking  of  your 
English  thoroughbred  and  your  smart  phae- 
ton, beside  which  I  love  to  stretch  my  limbs 
in  a  good  gallop — I  am  thinking  of  the  good 
food  I  get  in  Paris,  and  of  many  things  be- 
sides. Master  dear,  let  us  go!  I  don't  like 
this  place,  and  the  people  here  hate  me!" 

"Hullo,  hullo!     It's  easy  to  see  what's  the 


THE  KEYNOTE  141 

matter  with  you,  my  boy,"  commented  An- 
thime,  rolling  cosily  over  on  to  his  side,  "but 
you  must  wait  awhile."  He  pulled  the  bed- 
clothes well  up  round  his  neck,  and  snuggled 
into  the  pillows,  for  he  was  a  late  riser.  He 
thought  of  his  mother.  He  had  loved  her 
indeed,  but  with  the  affection  of  a  spoilt  child, 
or  a  favoured  cat,  more  than  the  understand- 
ing sympathy  of  a  grown  man.  He  had  suf- 
fered cruelly  the  first  few  days  after  her  death, 
but  he  reflected  curiously  that  the  very  in- 
tensity of  the  gloom  her  passing  had  produced, 
and  the  utter  absence  of  healthy  pursuits 
wherein  one  might  find  temporary  alleviation, 
were  already  blunting  the  sharpness  of  the 
sting  which  had  tormented  him  in  the  early 
hours  of  his  grief. 

He  only  saw  his  father  when  he  went  to 
his  room  in  the  morning,  to  ask  how  he  had 
slept.  The  unhappy  man  had  completely 
broken  down  in  health  and  was  confined  to 
his  bed.  He  declined  to  see  anybody  and 
would  not  even  suffer  the  doctor  to  be  sent  for ; 
he  never  spoke,  and  spent  the  entire  day  alone, 
in  the  dark,  for  no  one  dared  open  the  shut- 
ters which  had  been  closed  by  his  orders  on 
the  day  of  the  funeral. 

Anthime   pitied  him   heartily  and   at  the 


142  THE  KEYNOTE 

same  time  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  half  con- 
temptuous tolerance  of  eccentricities  he  failed 
to  understand:  an  attitude,  it  must  be  admit- 
ted, learnt  from  his  mother  in  earliest  child- 
hood. Though  his  conscience  troubled  him 
for  not  having  craved  forgiveness  after  his 
first  misdemeanour  seven  years  ago,  he  could 
not  but  congratulate  himself  on  having  seized 
so  excellent  an  opportunity  of  escaping  the 
dulness  of  Petit-Fougeray,  and  resorting  to 
the  gay  life  of  Paris!  He  had  never  regretted 
it.  Whenever  he  cast  a  passing  thought  to 
Petit-Fougeray  from  his  luxurious  flat  on  the 
first  floor  of  a  princely  house  in  the  rue  de 
Varennes,  he  recalled  the  stuffy  smell  of  a 
dark  outhouse  full  of  rabbits  and  ferrets  in 
hutches,  and  a  tiled  vestibule  round  which 
hung  rows  and  rows  of  mouldy  hats  and  old 
coats.  These  things  constituted  for  him  the 
atmosphere  of  "home." 

He  had  forgotten  the  cheery  boyhood 
marked  by  innumerable  scrapes  and  the  ever- 
indulgent  affection  of  both  his  parents;  he 
was  a  dandy  now,  a  man  of  fashion,  a  pillar 
of  that  "jeunesse  doree"  which  spends  its  even- 
ings at  the  music-hall  of  the  moment,  sups 
at  Maxime's  and  stakes  a  fortune  on  the  turn 
of  a  card. 


THE  KEYNOTE  143 

On  the  dreary  morning  in  question,  lying 
on  a  pillow  smelling  of  a  fusty  linen-cup- 
board, his  thoughts  strayed  idly  to  Nelly  de 
Givernay,  his  mistress,  and  Prince  Stemof, 
his  favourite  boon-companion;  then  he  began 
to  wonder  about  his  mother's  fortune.  His 
father  had  made  no  mention  of  it  so  far,  there- 
fore he  had  no  means  of  knowing  what  his 
share  would  amount  to,  but  he  expected  some- 
thing considerable.  He  rested  his  supposition 
on  outside  gossip,  and,  from  certain  hints  his 
mother  had  occasionally  given  in  his  presence 
he  felt  justified  in  believing  that  he  would 
come  in  for  the  lion's  share  of  her  possessions. 
As  for  the  bills  of  exchange,  he  could  afford 
to  disregard  the  threats  of  that  old  usurer 
Miiller;  still  if  he  inherited  anything  con- 
siderable, he  would  pay  the  brute  something 
on  account;  and  in  the  meanwhile,  as  soon  as 
he  got  back  to  Paris  he  would  buy  Count  de 
la  Garnache's  colt.  He  ought  never  to  have 
hesitated  about  it;  its  nostrils  were  certainly 
rather  contracted  for  a  bloodhorse,  but  that 
blemish  was  redeemed  by  qualities  of  the  first 
order. 

Having  thought  the  matter  over  in  all  its 
bearings  and  made  his  decision  he  rang  for 
his  fire  and  shaving  water. 


144  THE  KEYNOTE 

When  the  temperature  of  the  room  was 
warmed  to  his  liking  he  threw  off  the  bed- 
clothes, stretched  himself,  and  strolled  to  the 
window.  It  had  stopped  raining,  but  the  gen- 
eral aspect  was  thoroughly  depressing. 
The  walls  were  stained  with  damp,  weeds 
sprouted  on  the  paths,  and  rivulets  had  forced 
their  way  through  the  gravel. 

He  turned  hurriedly  from  the  unattractive 
scene  and  began  his  ablutions.  The  scent  of 
bath-salts  perfumed  the  chamber.  He  de- 
bated whether  he  should  change  his  trainer. 
If  he  could  only  secure  the  services  of  Anson, 
the  Englishman,  what  an  advantage  it  would 
be! 

He  stood  before  the  glass  in  his  soft-fronted 
shirt,  curled  his  moustache,  brushed  his  hair 
till  its  ruddy  ripples  shone,  and  put  on  a  white 
collar  and  a  black  tie  that  showed  up  the 
azure  of  his  eyes  and  the  delicacy  of  his  com- 
plexion. A  well-fitting  black  serge  suit  com- 
pleted his  attire.  He  filled  his  cigar-case, 
and  stood  ready  to  encounter  another  idle  day. 
Fashionable,  dandified  though  he  appeared, 
there  yet  remained  something  in  his  appear- 
ance that  placed  him  a  little  apart  from  the 
mere  pleasure-surfeited  Paris  lounger.  In 
spite  of  the  marks  fast  living  had  graven  upon 


THE  KEYNOTE  145 

his  countenance,  the  sportsman  in  him  still  sur- 
vived. 

He  went  straight  to  his  father's  room  as 
usual,  and  knocked.  A  muffled  voice,  from 
under  the  bedclothes,  bade  him  enter.  The 
shutters  were  closed,  but  the  darkness  could 
not  entirely  conceal  the  disorder  of  the  apart- 
ment: clothes  tossed  here  and  there,  a  game- 
bag  on  the  table  amongst  papers,  quill  pens, 
and  sundry  other  litter. 

The  face  on  the  pillow  could  only  be  dimly 
discerned  under  the  shadow  of  the  blue  bed- 
hangings. 

"Good  morning,  Father.  How  are  you 
feeling  to-day?" 

"Not  well,  boy,  not  well,"  was  the  answer, 
in  a  feeble  voice. 

"Your  room  is  cold.  Shall  I  have  the  fire 
lighted?" 

"Oh  no.     It  is  not  worth  while." 

The  sound,  weaker  still  and  more  muffled, 
suggested  that  the  speaker,  tired  out  by  the 
effort,  was  disappearing  altogether  under  the 
bedclothes. 

"Please  make  use  of  me  if  you  want  any- 
thing." 

"Thank  you — you  might — yes,  send  Celestin 
to  me,  please." 


146  THE  KEYNOTE 

Anthlme  went  out  of  the  room.  He  de- 
livered his  father's  message  and  strolled  into 
the  courtyard  with  Michka  at  his  heels.  He 
had  nothing  to  do  and  was  bored  to  death. 
Impenetrable  gloom  brooded  over  everything. 
Even  the  grey  wintry  sky  weighed  like  a 
leaden  lid  upon  his  shoulders.  He  stood 
about,  idly  watching  the  hens  picking  up 
worms;  his  eyes  strayed  to  a  paddock  close  by 
where  Estelle  was  pulling  washed  linen  out 
of  a  smoking  cauldron  and  wringing  it  out. 
Something  in  her  attitude  suggested  that  she 
was  weeping  and  he  moved  nearer  to  ascer- 
tain. When  she  saw  him  coming  she  hastily 
rubbed  her  eyes  with  an  arm  reddened  by  the 
steaming  water  in  which  it  had  been  dab- 
bling. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Estelle?  Are  you  in 
trouble?" 

The  little  maid  tried  to  speak,  but  sobs 
gained  the  mastery  and  she  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands. 

He  watched  her.  She  had  unfastened  her 
short  black  boddice  at  the  top,  to  give  more 
freedom  to  her  movements,  and  the  snowy 
chemisette  above,  hanging  loose,  revealed  the 
soft  lines  of  her  full  young  bosom.  He 
looked  with  pleasure  at  the  sheeny  texture  of 


THE  KEYNOTE  147 

the  white  skin:  "But  for  her  hands  the  child 
would  be  pretty,"  he  thought  to  himself. 

"Come,  little  Estelle!"  he  said  gently,  yield- 
ing to  the  temptation  of  putting  his  arm 
round  her:  "Take  away  your  hands  and  tell 
me  the  reason  of  these  tears." 

But  she  only  sobbed  the  more. 

"Poor  little  thing!"  he  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders and  sauntered  on,  to  the  kitchen  garden. 
He  could  hear  the  sound  of  a  spade  ringing 
on  pebbly  soil,  from  behind  a  clump  of  ever- 
greens. He  walked  down  a  sodden  grass- 
path,  between  rows  of  winter  cabbages,  whose 
outer  leaves  hung  yellow  and  decaying. 
Pear  trees  stood  in  gaunt  rows  extending 
skeleton  arms;  here,  part  of  a  gourd  lay  rot- 
ting, there  a  startled  cat  darted  away  from 
among  some  dead  dahlias.  The  boundary 
hedges  stretched  away  on  either  side,  russet 
and  silver,  like  the  singed  remains  of  a  con- 
flagration. At  the  foot  of  a  wall  he  came 
upon  some  old  clothes  of  his  own  which  had 
evidently  been  used  to  make  a  scare-crow; 
he  kicked  them  aside. 

He  idled  thus,  absent-minded  and  unin- 
terested until  it  was  time  for  luncheon;  ate  his 
meal  alone,  and  lounged  afterwards  on  the 


148  THE  KEYNOTE 

sofa  in  the  drawing-room.  He  was  utterly  at 
a  loss  for  something  to  do.  His  mourning 
prohibited  shooting,  the  one  amusement  Petit- 
Fougeray  was  capable  of  providing;  there 
were  no  young  people  in  the  neighbouring 
houses.  So  he  yawned  and  smoked  away  the 
afternoon  until  four  o'clock,  when  he  thought 
he  might  find  Frederic  in  the  stables,  and 
have  a  talk  about  horses. 

This  day  was  typical  of  the  others.  He 
dawdled  towards  the  stable-yard  talking  to 
Michka  and  smacking  his  leg  with  an  old 
riding-whip  he  had  found  in  a  corner  of  the 
coach-house. 

Frederic  saw  him  coming  but  continued  his 
task  of  tossing  hay  into  the  mangers  of  the 
Pomeranians,  two  magnificent  black  horses 
which  had  been  kept  for  the  sole  use  of 
Madame  des  Lourdines,  and  of  which  she 
had  been  inordinately  proud. 

Anthime  hoisted  himself  on  to  the  oat  bin 
and  sat  with  rounded  back  and  legs  hanging 
on  either  side  of  Michka,  gazing  at  the  pow- 
erful necks  stretched  to  reach  their  feed. 
Presently  Frederic's  silence  and  the  morose 
air  with  which  he  moved  about  his  work  at- 
tracted his  attention. 


THE  KEYNOTE  149 

"What's  the  matter,  old  man?  Worry- 
ing about  something?" 

"Worrying,  Monsieur  Anthime?"  repeated 
Frederic,  busily  polishing  a  curb-chain. 

Anthime  looked  inquiringly  into  the 
troubled  face  of  the  old  servant. 

"What  is  it?    Tell  me." 

"We're  all  miserable,  Monsieur  Anthime, 
and  that's  the  truth.  The  other  day  your  fa- 
ther told  Estelle  he  should  not  require  her 
services  any  more,  and — just  fancy  Monsieur 
Anthime!  no  later  than  this  morning  he  said 
the  same  thing  to  Celestin!    To  Celestin!" 

Anthime  looked  thoughtful  and  did  not  re- 
ply for  a  moment. 

"Poor  old  Frederic,"  he  said  at  length,  "I 
don't  wonder  at  your  being  unhappy!  I  am 
frightfully  sorry  to  hear  that  Estelle  and 
Celestin  have  got  to  go.  But  you  know  what 
my  father  is,  and  the  sort  of  life  he  likes  to 
lead.  Now  that  he  is  alone,  I  suppose  he 
will  not  require  so  many  people  to  wait  upon 
him.     That  must  be  it." 

Frederic  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 

"Hum!" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Nothing,  Monsieur  Anthime,  nothing." 
Then  he  added,  scratching  his  head: 


150  THE  KEYNOTE 

"I  should  like  to  ask  you  something,  Mon- 
sieur Anthime.  Of  course  I  know  it's 
none  of  my  business,  but  after  all  I've  known 
you  since  you  were  a  little  lad,  so  high,  so  per- 
haps you'll  forgive  me — are  you  going  to 
leave  us  too?  Are  you  going  away  from 
Petit- Fougeray?" 

Anthime  replied  without  hesitation. 

"Why  think  of  it,  Frederic!  Of  course  I 
am  going  to  leave!  How  on  earth  could  I 
stay  at  Petit-Fougeray!  What  the  devil 
should  I  do  here?" 

The  old  coachman  stopped  polishing,  and 
slowly  hung  the  curb-chains  in  their  places 
on  the  wall. 

"Then  it's  all  over!  Estelle  gone,  Celestin 
gone,  you  away,  Monsieur  Anthime!  It's 
the  end  of  the  world,  as  far  as  we  are  con- 
cerned!" 

Anthime  did  not  relish  the  turn  the  con- 
versation was  taking.  He  began  slashing  the 
air  with  his  whip. 

Frederic  looked  drily  at  him,  picked  up 
his  broom  and  pitch  fork  and  walked  off:  "I 
must  go  and  see  to  Count  Caradec." 

Anthime  followed. 

Count   Caradec,   the   erstwhile   race-horse, 


THE  KEYNOTE  151 

was  not  tied  by  the  head  in  a  stall,  but  en- 
joyed the  modified  freedom  of  a  loose-box  in 
which  he  could  stand,  roll,  or  stretch  himself 
at  will. 

His  master  visited  him  regularly  every  aft- 
ernoon at  this  hour.  Anthime  would  stand 
pensively  watching  the  wreck  of  his  former 
treasure,  going  over  in  his  mind  the  thrills 
and  triumphs  he  had  experienced  on  his  back. 
The  old  horse  was  on  his  last  legs.  No  one 
even  troubled  to  groom  him  now.  His  coat 
stared  in  rough  tufts,  like  a  neglected  lawn; 
his  slender  neck  still  showed  signs  of  breed- 
ing, but  his  quarters  drooped,  and  the  project- 
ing joints  were  connected  with  his  flanks  by 
a  sagging  fold  of  worn  hide;  the  pasterns  had 
not  been  trimmed  for  a  couple  of  seasons; 
there  were  horny  excrescences  on  his  hocks. 

"Come  up,  old  boy!"  said  Frederic,  enter- 
ing the  loose-box.  The  old  horse  moved  into 
a  corner  and  turned  his  beautiful  limpid  gaze 
upon  the  two  men.  A  nervous  shiver  ran 
down  his  shoulder. 

"The  Chazy  gardener  came  here  last  year  to 
try  and  buy  him,"  commented  Frederic,  toss- 
ing the  litter  on  the  ground  and  tidying  it 
with  his  pitch  fork;  "he  would  have  set  him 
to  carrying  vegetables  to  market,  so  your  fa- 


152  THE  KEYNOTE 

ther  would  not  hear  of  it:  no,  no,  he  said,  I 
won't  part  with  my  son's  horse!" 

"He  never  got  over  the  lameness  that  fol- 
lowed that  bout  of  fever  in  the  feet." 

"No,  he  will  always  walk  a  bit  tender.  I 
have  tried  all  sorts,  blistering,  compresses, 
everything.  He  is  an  old  crook.  Old  horses 
are  like  old  soldiers.  The  day  comes  when 
they  are  only  fit  for  the  scavenger." 

"Look  here,  I  want  to  get  on  his  back!  I 
must  ride  old  Caradec  once  more!" 

"Ride  Caradec!  Good  Lord,  sir!"  Fred- 
eric stared  as  if  he  thought  his  young  master 
had  suddenly  gone  mad. 

"Yes,  really,"  repeated  Anthime,  laughing 
at  the  expression  on  the  coachman's  face. 
"Put  a  saddle  on  him.  Of  course  I  shan't 
take  him  out  of  the  park.  I'll  just  go  down 
the  avenue,  as  far  as  the  meadow." 

Count  Caradec  was  accordingly  got  ready 
and  presently  Anthime  was  in  the  saddle. 

He  had  a  pretty  seat  and  looked  well  on 
horseback,  though  he  affected  the  arched  back 
and  sunken  chest  of  a  jockey.  He  moved 
away  at  a  foot's  pace,  quite  content  to  feel  his 
old  friend  between  his  legs.  But  the  poor 
animal's  paces  were  a  thing  of  the  past.  He 
walked  badly  and  dragged  his  feet. 


THE  KEYNOTE  153 

Anthime  took  him  under  the  trees,  his  slight 
figure  swaying  gently  to  the  motion,  a  little 
hunting  tune  on  his  lips.  He  selected  a  nar- 
row pathway  between  some  shrubberies 
of  evergreens  leading  to  an  ivy-covered  wall 
forming  the  boundary  of  the  demesne. 
Here  the  trees  widened  into  a  glade  carpeted 
with  ferns  and  thistles.  This  had  been  the 
daily  walk  of  Madame  des  Lourdines,  as  long 
as  she  had  been  able  to  get  about  on  her  feet. 
She  enjoyed  the  sharp  scent  of  the  box-trees 
and  bracken.  Celestin  had  put  up  a  little 
arbour  for  her  use  just  beyond  the  chestnuts, 
on  the  bank  of  the  river.  Close  by,  there  had 
been  a  shrine;  a  rusty  statue  of  St.  Joseph 
still  lay  against  tbe  wall,  with  one  arm  snapped 
off. 

Anthime  sat  leaning  forward  in  the  saddle, 
his  eyes  travelling  indifferently  over  the  scene. 
A  deeper  nature  might  have  found  many  ten- 
der associations  in  it.  But  his  childhood  had 
been  too  thoughtlessly  serene  for  sentiment. 
He  had  not  been  trained  to  think,  nor  re- 
member, nor  care.  He  lived  entirely  in  the 
present,  and  just  now  the  present,  in  its 
gloomy  exile  from  Paris,  was  a  pretty 
lugubrious  affair! 

On  the  further  side  of  the  wall,  beyond  the 


154  THE  KEYNOTE 

narrow  river,  stretched  a  dreary-looking 
valley.  The  westering  sun  planed  red-gold 
among  rain-clouds;  from  the  darkening 
heights  above,  a  wet  breeze  was  blowing,  dis- 
turbing the  dead  leaves  and  diffusing  the 
acrid  odours  of  sodden  bark,  and  pine-cones; 
it  also  blew  searchingly  on  the  old  horse's 
long  coat,  disclosing  little  circlets  of  worn 
skin. 

"Ho!  Ho!  So  Frederic  hopes  to  see  me 
winter  here!"  laughed  Anthime  to  himself. 
He  reflected  that  another  couple  of  months 
spent  at  his  father's  side  would  amply  satisfy 
the  requirements  of  filial  duty  and  decency. 
He  fixed  his  piercing  eyes  away  into  distance, 
beyond  hill  and  dale,  as  if  he  could  see  Paris. 
He  thought  of  Nelly  de  Givernay,  the  music- 
hall  singer  whose  lover  he  had  been  for  the 
past  eighteen  months.  Before  that,  he  had 
hovered  from  flower  to  flower,  too  light- 
hearted  to  fall  under  the  thrall  of  an  enduring 
passion.  But  Nelly  had  changed  all  that. 
From  the  first  moment  he  had  heard  her  on 
the  stage,  he  had  fallen  prone,  bewitched, 
crazed  by  her  charm.  It  was  not  so  much 
her  looks,  which  were  but  mediocre,  as  the 
quality  of  her  voice,  that  arrested  and  enslaved 
him.     Others  failed  to  recognise  its  wonder- 


THE  KEYNOTE  155 

ful  attraction,  but  it  contained  some  peculiar 
vibration  which  caused  him  shivers  of  delight 
and  hypnotised  him  like  a  bird  under  the  gaze 
of  a  serpent.  There  was  the  same  tremulous 
ring  in  her  light  laugh.  Oftentimes  he  would 
suddenly  beg  her  to  simulate  merriment  and 
mimic  her  own  laugh;  and  he  would  listen 
ecstatically.  There  was  no  limit  to  the  follies 
he  had  already  perpetrated  under  her  in- 
fluence. 

Now,  with  the  silent  trees  above  his  head 
and  the  slumbering  countryside  spreading  at 
his  feet,  his  heart  travelled  back  to  her;  he 
longed  with  a  physical  ache  for  the  sound 
of  her  voice  and  fluttering  laugh. 

A  real  laugh  suddenly  broke  upon  his  re- 
flections. He  started,  shook  the  reins  and 
urged  his  horse  through  some  birch  trees  to  the 
edge  of  the  common-land  whence  came  the 
voices.  Two  little  girls  had  just  crossed 
the  river. 

aGood  afternoon,  sir,"  said  the  elder. 

"Good  afternoon,  little  one.  What's  the 
joke?     I  heard  you  laughing." 

"Oh  sir,  it's  my  little  sister.  You  have  no 
idea  how  funny  she  is!" 

Meanwhile  the  younger,  a  child  of  five  or 
six,  was  darting  about,  dipping  her  toes  in  the 


156  THE  KEYNOTE 

water,  trying  to  climb  the  trees,  and  enjoying 
herself  to  her  heart's  content. 

"What  have  you  got  on  your  cheeks,  you 
imp!"  exclaimed  Anthime,  as  she  ran  up 
panting,  to  exhibit  her  wet  shoes  and  soiled 
pinafore. 

"Oh,  you  naughty  baby!"  cried  the  big 
sister,  giggling  merrily.  She  flew  at  her  and 
rubbed  her  face  vigorously  with  her  own 
pinafore,  bringing  a  fine  natural  glow  into 
the  downy  cheeks. 

"She  has  put  on  wheat-flour  out  of  the  bin 
at  home.  That's  the  sort  of  trick  she  plays 
all  the  time.  The  other  day  she  smothered 
her  feet  in  it.  You  can't  think  how  comic 
it  was.  She  keeps  us  all  in  fits  of  laughter" — 
and  the  children  went  on  their  way. 

The  day  was  closing  in.  At  the  further  end 
of  a  long  avenue  Anthime  could  see  a  por- 
tion of  the  buff-coloured  face  of  his  home, 
with  all  the  shutters  shut. 

The  merry  chatter  of  the  children  receded 
in  the  distance. 

Anthime  tried  to  make  Caradec  execute  a 
"volte,"  but  the  old  horse  had  forgotten  his 
training;  he  put  him  into  a  trot,  but  a  sorry 
limping  lope  was  the  result;  so  he  pulled  him 
up,  and  his  spirits  sank  still  lower. 


THE  KEYNOTE  157 

He  turned  homewards. 

Passing  through  the  courtyard  he  was  sur- 
prised to  see  Maitre  Paillaud  getting  into  his 
carriage  with  a  big  bundle  of  papers  under 
his  arm.  Anthime  wondered  whether  he  bad 
come  about  his  mother's  will. 

"Well,  Monsieur  Anthime,  how  did  he  go?" 
asked  Frederic,  coming  forward  to  take  the 
horse. 

"He's  finished,  poor  old  Caradec!"  returned 
Anthime.  Michka  bounded  out  of  the  house 
and  overwhelmed  his  master  with  clumsy  at- 
tentions. 

"Good  dog!    Good  dog!" 

Passing  the  open  door  of  the  kitchen  he 
overheard  Perrine  grumbling:  "Did  you 
ever  see  such  cheek!  bringing  that  great  dog 
to  his  own  mother's  death-bed!" 

"Meddlesome  old  fool!"  he  muttered 
angrily.     "Who  cares  what  she  thinks?" 


CHAPTER X 

MAITRE  PAILLAUD'S  visit  left 
Monsieur  des  Lourdines  in  the  con- 
dition of  complete  mental  and 
physical  prostration  apt  to  be  produced  by  the 
extinction  of  hope  and  the  actual  falling  of  a 
long-dreaded  blow. 

On  the  sheet  lay  a  packet  of  papers. 
"Seven  hundred  and  fifty  acres  1"  he  sighed. 
He  pictured  oxen  straining  at  the  plough  in 
the  November  haze,  chattering  girls  sowing 
corn  on  the  rich  slopes,  flocks  of  sheep  pad- 
ding back  to  the  shelter  of  their  pens  at  even- 
tide. All  this  country  realm,  once  his  own, 
was  passing  from  his  reluctant  hands;  he  was 
robbed  of  his  personal  share  in  the  spring, 
the  autumn,  the  fruitful  seasons  which  had 
succeeded  each  other  almost  as  his  possession, 
for  so  many  years,  on  his  own  beautiful  land 
in  Poitiers.  "To  see  is  almost  to  possess!"  he 
quoted  wearily  as  he  pushed  under  his  pillow 
the  parcel  of  bank-notes  the  lawyer  had  just 
delivered  to  him:  they  were  the  price  of  three 

158 


THE  KEYNOTE  159 

properties,  Fouchaut,  la  Bernegoue  and  one  of 
the  big  farms  at  Marais. 

He  absently  ran  his  eye  again  over  a  letter 
from  a  horse-dealer,  promising  to  run  over 
shortly  and  see  whether  the  Pomeranian 
horses  would  suit  his  purpose. 

He  let  it  fall  from  his  nerveless  hand  and 
turned  to  look  at  a  picture  which  had  been 
brought  from  downstairs  and  now  hung  on  the 
wall  over  his  bed.  It  was  a  portrait  of  his 
wife,  painted  in  the  days  of  her  youth.  It 
showed  her  in  evening  dress,  with  bands  of 
black  hair  parted  on  the  brow  and  gathered 
in  a  bunch  of  Grecian  ringlets  on  the  top  of 
her  head.  He  scrutinized  the  shining  curls, 
the  laughing  eyes  with  golden  lights  in  their 
brown  velvet  depths.  His  thoughts  no  longer 
pictured  her  in  the  helplessness  of  her  in- 
firmity, for  death  is  oftentimes  kind,  and  trans- 
lates truth  into  poetry,  for  the  consolation  of 
the  sorrowing  survivors. 

In  life  they  had  never  been  closely  united. 
His  ideals  were  not  hers  and  she  had  often 
shown  herself  hostile  to  his  views.  But  his 
gentle  mind  declined  to  criticize;  even  now 
after  a  companionship  of  thirty  years  he  re- 
fused to  judge  her;  he  recognised  the  right  of 
each  soul  to  its  own  code  of  right  and  wrong, 


160  THE  KEYNOTE 

its  own  opinions  and  principles,  its  own  re- 
sponsibility. 

The  slightly  mocking  twist  of  the  lips  in 
the  picture  reminded  the  bereaved  husband 
of  the  shriek  she  had  given  as  she  fell  into 
his  arms.  "Anthime!"  The  beloved  son's 
name  had  been  practically  her  last  utterance. 
As  her  mind  had  remained  clear  for  some 
days  after  speech  and  movement  had  left  her, 
what  mental  torment  she  must  have  endured 
before  unconsciousness  brought  merciful  re- 
lief! He  groaned:  "fimilie!  my  poor  one!" 
and  his  heart  melted  in  pity. 

His  reflections  passed  abruptly  to  his  son: 
What  was  he  feeling?  What  was  his  atti- 
tude of  mind?  For  the  thousandth  time  he 
murmured :  "What  is  to  be  the  end  of  all  this !" 

He  had  originally  intended  to  speak  to  him 
after  the  funeral  and  acquaint  him  with  the 
situation,  with  all  the  severity  of  a  righteously 
offended  parent.  But  when  the  time  came 
he  found  himself  incapable  of  performing  the 
task.  He  was  so  exhausted  by  grief  that  he 
could  not  have  maintained  the  necessary 
sternness;  all  he  craved  for  was  rest  and 
oblivion.  He  shuddered  as  he  recalled  the 
scenes  that  marked  Anthime's  first  rupture 
with  his  parents  and  departure  for  Paris,  and 


THE  KEYNOTE  161 

shrank  from  a  repetition  of  them:  "What  is 
the  use?"  he  pondered.  "The  worst  has  al- 
ready happened.  Nothing  can  be  done. 
Why  not  wait  a  few  days  until  I  am 
stronger?"  So,  as  the  only  means  of  avoid- 
ing a  tete-a  tete  with  his  son  he  had  retired  to 
bed  and  announced  that  he  was  too  ill  to  sus- 
tain conversation.  Like  a  wounded  animal 
he  sought  the  obscurity  of  his  darkened  room 
and  brooded  over  his  sorrow,  his  indignation, 
his  apprehension  of  the  future.  The  morn- 
ing visits  of  Anthime  were  a  daily  torture. 
Several  times  he  was  on  the  point  of  speak- 
ing, but  each  time  his  courage  failed  and  he 
let  him  go,  angered  at  his  own  weakness,  yet 
justifying  himself  with  wise  axioms,  such  as: 
"Silence  is  strength.  Delay  gives  time  for  re- 
flection. The  evil  that  has  been  wrought 
cannot  be  annulled  by  reproaches." 

But  the  real  source  of  his  hesitation  was 
that,  in  spite  of  everything,  his  love  for  his 
son  still  reigned  undismayed  in  his  generous 
heart.  Selfishness  and  ingratitude  failed  to 
destroy  it.  It  survived  triumphant  as  that 
son's  best  defence. 

With  the  passing  of  time  his  feelings  grew 
milder:  "How  could  Anthime  be  expected 
to  read  the  mind  of  a  man  so  rigidly  reserved 


162  THE  KEYNOTE 

as  I  am?"  he  asked  himself.  "He  does  not 
know  me,  and  I  understand  him  very  little 
better.  It  is  my  fault.  I  never  studied  his 
character.  I  attempted  to  do  so  at  first,  but 
my  poor  Emilie  did  not  encourage  it;  in  fact 
she  did  all  in  her  power  to  throw  difficulties 
in  my  way.  I  ought  not  to  have  given  in!  I 
ought  to  have  insisted,  and  done  what  I 
thought  right!" 

He  regretted  not  having  made  a  companion 
of  the  boy  in  early  life,  and  instilled  the  love 
of  nature  into  him,  instead  of  leaving  him  to 
plunge  into  foolish  dissipation.  He  should 
have  taught  him  to  care  for  animals  and  trees, 
and  talked  to  him  of  the  eternal  truths  which 
sow  the  seed  of  life  in  the  soul  of  youth: 
"For  he  is  not  a  bad  boy.  He  is  generous 
and  responsive.  So  much  might  have  been 
accomplished!"  Whole  days  passed,  oc- 
cupied with  such  reflections. 

Monsieur  ides  Lourdines  was  haunted  by  a 
thought  which  grew  to  prodigious  propor- 
tions in  his  unhealthy  solitude.  It  amounted 
to  an  obsession  and  at  last  one  evening  action 
became  imperative.  He  spent  a  sleepless 
night,  walking  about  his  room,  looking  at  the 
clock,  longing  feverishly  for  daylight.     Once 


THE  KEYNOTE  1G3 

he  cried  aloud  exultantly:  "Evil  is  more  pow- 
erful than  we  are!  It  forces  us  to  bite  the 
dust.  Yet  we  rise  again  triumphant,  laugh- 
ing in  the  sunshine,  singing  among  the 
flowers !" 

When  Anthime  entered  his  father's  room  a 
few  minutes  before  breakfast  he  found  him 
no  longer  prone  among  the  pillows,  but  sit- 
ting upright,  his  eyes  smiling  in  the  light  ad- 
mitted by  the  open  shutters  and  wide-drawn 
curtains. 

"Good  morning,  Father.     How — ?" 

"Ever  so  much  better,  Anthime,"  he  inter- 
rupted. "I  am  sick  of  this  room,  do  you  know. 
I  should  like  to  get  up  and  go  out.  Will  you 
come  with  me?  It  would  be  a  pleasure  to 
me  to  take  a  long  walk  with  you." 

"Of  course  I  will,"  replied  Anthime,  look- 
ing as  surprised  as  he  felt.  "But  is  it  wise? 
You  are  surely  not  fully  recovered,  and  it 
might  be  imprudent." 

"No,  no.  I  must  have  light.  I  must 
breathe  the  scent  of  the  forest.  And  I  shall 
not  be  alone.  You  will  be  with  me,  will  you 
not?    Ah,  my  boy,  I  need  light  1" 

As  soon  as  his  son  left  the  room  he  rose 
from  his  bed,  put  on  a  dressing-gown  and 
threw  open  the  windows.    The  morning  was 


164.  THE  KEYNOTE 

bright  and  bracing,  the  air  fragrant  with  the 
perfumes  of  earth,  milk,  and  hay.  The  few 
remaining  leaves  on  the  trees  rustled  in  the 
soft  breeze.  Drops  of  moisture  trickled  down 
the  tiled  roof.  He  gazed  at  the  little  bit  of 
forest  which  came  within  range  of  the  window 
where  he  was  standing. 

When  he  appeared  in  the  courtyard  after 
luncheon,  dressed  in  the  old  green  coat,  felt 
hat  and  long  boots,  Anthime  who  was  waiting 
for  him  whistled  to  Michka.  The  dog 
bounded  out  of  the  woodhouse  and  stood, 
wagging  his  tail,  and  looking  inquiringly  at 
his  master. 

"No,  Anthime.  Do  not  take  your  dog  with 
you." 

"Why  not?     He  will  do  no  harm." 

His  father  however  repeated:  "I  prefer 
that  you  should  leave  him  behind." 

"Very  well.  Go  lie  down!  Good  dog!" 
called  Anthime,  following  his  father,  but 
looking  back  over  his  shoulder  to  see  whether 
he  was  obeyed. 

Michka  drooped  his  ears  and  tail  and  before 
returning  to  the  woodstack  stood  looking  after 
his  master,  evidently  wondering  mournfully 
what  had  earned  him  this  rebuff.  Presently 
he   resigned   himself,    and   yawning,    trotted 


THE  KEYNOTE  165 

back,  lazily  swinging  his  high,  narrow  quar- 
ters. 

The  two  men  strode  briskly  along  the  mid- 
dle of  the  road,  Monsieur  des  Lourdines  set- 
ting the  pace. 

"It  is  not  going  to  rain,"  he  observed. 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  Anthime  replied 
vaguely.  This  country  walk  with  no  partic- 
ular object,  without  even  the  solace  of  his  dog 
to  whom  he  might  occasionally  have  whistled, 
did  not  promise  much  entertainment:  of  two 
evils  he  would  infinitely  have  preferred  hang- 
ing about  the  stables  in  the  company  of  Fred- 
eric and  Count  Caradec. 

"What  a  funny  old  chap  it  is!"  he  mused; 
his  father  was  not  looking  at  all  well;  his  big 
cloak  and  flapping  felt  hat  emphasised  the 
spareness  of  his  figure  and  the  pallor  of  his 
cheeks.  Nevertheless  he  walked  at  a  surpris- 
ing pace,  with  his  head  thrown  forward  as  if 
eager  to  arrive  at  a  given  point.  His  long 
staff  prodding  the  ground  at  each  step,  and 
the  game  bag  hanging  at  his  side,  made  him 
look  for  all  the  world  like  a  pedlar  tramping 
from  village  to  village. 

"I  suppose  the  poor  old  boy  is  going  to 
talk  to  me  about  Mother's  will — but  I  don't 


166  THE  KEYNOTE 

see  that  Michka  would  have  been  in  the  way." 
He  very  nearly  gave  utterance  in  an  airy  way 
to  the  thought,  as  his  eyes  idly  roamed  over 
the  land  and  took  in  the  wintry  aspect  of  the 
scene:  interminable  hedges  on  either  side  of 
the  road,  and  beyond  them  fields  and  yet  more 
fields,  yellow,  marshy,  enclosed  within  trees 
and  hedges  of  the  same  monotonous  shape;  to 
right  and  left,  at  the  end  of  long-  by-roads, 
rustic-looking  farmhouses  standing  each  in  its 
square  of  churned-up,  muddy  ground.  The 
horizon  was  dotted  with  gnarled  trees ;  the  sky 
heavy  with  slaty  clouds  illumined  from  be- 
hind by  a  diffused  light,  white  and  woolly  as 
asbestos. 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  trudged  on 
steadily.  Anthime,  lagging  a  pace  or  two 
behind,  observed  him  critically. 

"He  does  look  a  yokel!  He  is  just  like  one 
of  the  peasants!  No  wonder,  living  year  in 
and  year  out  at  a  place  like  Petit- Fougeray!" 

This  peculiarity  of  his  father  had  never 
struck  him  so  vividly  before. 

"Isn't  this  the  Placis  des  Corbeaux?"  he 
asked  presently.  "Do  the  boys  still  come  here 
to  fight?" 

"Every  year !"  answered  Monsieur  des  Lour- 
dines, halting  at  once. 


THE  KEYNOTE  167 

They  were  in  an  open  glade,  where  from 
time  immemorial  the  youths  of  Douet  and 
Frelonnieres  were  in  the  habit  of  meeting  on 
St.  Christopher's  day,  to  wage  war  on  each 
other.  Without  rhyme  or  reason,  beyond  that 
of  ancient  custom,  they  would  fall  to  at  a 
given  signal,  and  belabour  each  other  with 
might  and  main. 

"And  is  not  this  the  place  also,"  continued 
Anthime,  "where  the  old  Bishop  of  Lu$on, 
Monseigneur  Corlazeau,  used  to  mistake  those 
pollard  oaks  bordering  the  road  for  men?" 

"Ah,  do  you  remember  that?"  cried  Mon- 
sieur des  Lourdines  joyfully,  looking  into  his 
son's  face  with  emotion.  "It  is  quite  true. 
Monseigneur  Corlazeau  was  very  shortsighted, 
and  returning  at  night  from  his  pastoral  visi- 
tations used  to  take  those  bent  trees  for  peas- 
ants, come  out  to  welcome  him,  and  would 
give  them  his  blessing.  Fancy  your  remem- 
bering that!  And  this  oak — does  it  recall  any 
memories  to  you?" 

"This  oak?"  repeated  Anthime.  "Why 
surely  it  is  the  one  we  used  to  call  the  Magpie's 
oak;  I  used  to  come  and  play  under  it  with  the 
boys  of  the  neighbourhood." 

A  light  from  within  irradiated  the  counte- 
nance of  the  delighted  parent.     One  might 


168  THE  KEYNOTE 

almost  have  sworn  that  the  clouds  overcasting 
the  snowy  sky  had  parted  to  allow  a  shaft  of 
sunshine  to  fall  across  his  worn  face. 

He  started  off  again,  walking  at  an  even 
brisker  pace  than  before. 

They  were  now  in  the  heart  of  the  forest, 
winding  their  way  through  narrow  tracks  and 
brushwood  tangle.  They  scrambled  along  be- 
tween oaks,  silver  birches,  and  pines,  at  whose 
feet  slumbered  dank  heaps  of  ragged  bark  and 
russet  pine  needles.  They  climbed  up  slopes 
riddled  with  fox  holes  and  furrowed  by  little 
runnels  of  water  caused  by  the  recent  rains. 
They  emerged  occasionally  into  some  lighter 
spot  which  seemed  to  herald  the  limit  of  this 
vast  abode  of  darkness,  but  invariably  the  trees 
closed  in  again  and  engulphed  them  into  yet 
deeper  obscurity.  Whenever  they  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  sky  overhead,  they  saw  the  same 
leaden  clouds,  planing  low,  sailing  slowly  in 
their  wake. 

"Where  on  earth  are  you  taking  me, 
Father?"  asked  Anthime  at  length,  lumbering 
uncomfortably  at  his  parent's  heels  through  a 
particularly  impassable  swamp. 

"Never  mind,  Anthime — come — you  will 
see  presently." 

"You  certainly  do  know  your  way  about 


THE  KEYNOTE  109 

your  old  forest!    You  know  it  better  than  I 
do!" 

"Yes.     I  know  it  better  than  you  do." 

Presently  they  came  to  a  morass  between 
two  low  banks.  Monsieur  des  Lourdines 
floundered  into  the  mud  without  hesitation, 
and  sank  in  over  his  ankles ;  but  Anthime  pre- 
ferred to  pick  his  way  along  one  of  the  banks, 
which  he  did  very  slowly,  leaving  fragments 
of  his  garments  on  projecting  thorn  bushes. 
The  greasy  soil  slid  from  under  his  feet;  he 
slithered  on  slimy  moss  and  scratched  his  hands 
in  trying  to  save  himself,  while  his  father,  dirty 
and  draggled  from  head  to  foot,  stood  on  dry 
ground  and  watched  his  progress. 

"Anthime!"  he  called,  and  his  voice  rever- 
berated as  if  in  a  tunnel:  "Why  don't  you  go 
down  into  the  middle?  If  you  were  only  a 
small  boy  I  would  come  back  and  carry  you!" 
Anthime  declared  laughingly  that  he  pre- 
ferred thorns  to  mud,  and  proceeded  on  his 
arduous  way. 

"Hullo!"  he  exclaimed  as  he  joined  his 
father.  "Why  we've  come  right  through  on 
to  the  opposite  side!" 

They  had,  in  fact,  stepped  out  into  light 
and  space,  and  now  stood  under  a  vast  misty 
sky. 


170  THE  KEYNOTE 

High  above  them  to  the  left,  on  the  summit 
of  a  bare  hill  covered  with  granite  boulders 
and  golden  bracken,  stood  a  gigantic  cross. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Father?" 
The  old  man  had  stopped  short,  as  if  his 
breath  had  failed  him. 

"Nothing,"  he  answered,  laying  his  hand 
gently  on  his  son's  arm;  "come  with  me.  I 
want  to  take  you  up  there." 

After  a  steep  climb,  they  found  themselves 
at  last  above  the  rocks  standing  on  the  highest 
point  of  the  district.  It  was  called  "Le  Mont 
de  la  Croix  Verte." 

It  was  connected  in  Monsieur  des  Lour- 
dines'  mind  with  his  happiest  hours  of  peace 
and  solitude.  He  had  spent  entire  days  there, 
sitting  among  the  soft  fern,  watching  the 
fleecy  clouds  above,  the  smiling  country  and 
black  expanse  of  forest  below,  searching  deep 
into  the  heart  of  things,  coming  gradually  to 
the  comprehension  of  inward  truths  which  in 
the  busy  haunts  of  men  must  have  eluded  his 
tentative  grasp. 

It  was  his  Mount  of  Olives. 

On  a  base  of  solid  stone  an  ancient  granite 
cross  reared  its  height,  bare  and  uncompromis- 
ing, dominating  the  country  round  for  all  time 
with  a  stern  serenity  that  defied  the  storming 


THE  KEYNOTE  171 

of  the  elements  and  the  scorching  of  the  un- 
veiled sun's  rays. 

But  the  earth  at  its  feet,  the  slimy  blackened 
earth,  jealously  sought  to  hinder  its  bold  ascent 
into  pure  ether  by  the  clasp  of  a  lush  growth 
of  lichens.  These  parasites,  mingled  with 
green  mosses,  and  orange-coloured  vegetable 
rust,  clung  to  its  stony  base  and  ventured  up 
its  shaft,  clothing  it  in  a  sheath  of  tawny 
velvet. 

To  the  south  a  limitless  country  spread  its 
breadth  to  meet  sixty  miles  of  horizon  and 
bare  hills. 

The  ascent  had  been  arduous.  Monsieur 
des  Lourdines  threw  himself  panting  on  to  a 
rock  which  raised  its  knobby  surface  above  the 
thistles.  Wrapped  thus  in  his  cloak,  his  face 
shaded  by  the  broad  brimmed  peasant  hat, 
gazing  silent  and  motionless  into  the  far  dis- 
tance, he  resembled  a  shepherd  patiently 
awaiting  eventide. 

Anthime,  standing  a  little  behind,  could 
just  see  his  projecting  cheek-bones  and  lean 
chin.  He  noticed  how  heavily  his  father 
drooped  on  the  hard  rock,  and  how  completely 
oblivious  he  appeared  to  be  of  his  surround- 
ings or  the  presence  of  his  companion. 

"He  is  exhausted,"  he  pondered.     "Why  on 


172  THE  KEYNOTE 

earth  need  he  have  come  so  far!  This  view 
is  certainly  worth  seeing,  and  the  air  is  splen- 
didly bracing,  but  we  have  got  to  get  back 
again." 

He  supposed  his  father  would  now  broach 
the  subject  of  the  will.  In  the  event  of  his 
not  doing  so  he  cogitated  how  to  lead  the  con- 
versation up  to  it.  But  he  dared  not  begin. 
The  silence  and  immobility  of  the  old  man, 
the  brooding  expression  of  his  eyes,  and  the 
loose  clasp  of  his  shrivelled  hands  around  his 
knees  impressed  him. 

"Perhaps  he  is  praying,"  he  thought,  and 
followed  the  direction  of  his  father's  gaze, 
wondering  whether  he  was  looking  at  any- 
thing in  particular,  or  only  seeing  visions. 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  rose  slowly  to  his 
feet. 

"Look!"  said  he  to  his  son.  "Look  at  all 
that!" 

"I  have  never  been  up  here  before,"  faltered 
Anthime  uncomfortably,  under  the  piercing 
glance  now  suddenly  concentrated  upon  him. 

His  father  stared  still  harder  into  his  face. 

"Mine!  Mine  and  yours!"  he  whispered, 
with  a  wide  gesture  towards  the  distant  hor- 
izon. "Breathe  this  air!  Fill  your  lungs 
with  it!     It  carries  the  scent  of  our  own  trees, 


THE  KEYNOTE  173 

the  smoke  of  our  peat  fires!  Watch  its  direc- 
tion— it  comes  from  Petit-Fougeray,  our 
home — listen  to  its  song!" 

A  feverish  excitement  animated  his  voice 
and  eyes. 

"Anthime,  I  will  tell  you  why  I  have 
brought  you  here.  I  want  you  to  see  with  my 
eyes,"  he  continued,  in  strangled  tones.  "I 
love  this  place — I  came  here  first  as  a  small 
boy — I  used  to  come  when  I  was  a  man  like 
you  are  now,  and  again,  up  till  the  present 
time.  All  this  that  you  see  before  you  is  ours 
— our  inheritance  from  father  to  son.  Look 
as  far  as  you  can  see!  Ah,  if  only  I  could 
make  myself  clear!  Do  you  not  feel,  and  see, 
and  hear,  all  around,  the  bond  that  unites  us 
to  the  land!  Does  it  not  envelop  you  like  an 
atmosphere,  this  sensation  of  possession,  of 
reciprocity!  Do  you  not  grasp  the  harmonies 
in  the  wind?" 

Anthime  promptly  thought  of  the  harmonies 
in  the  voice  of  Nelly,  his  enchantress,  and  had 
therefore  no  answer  ready  for  his  father. 

"Listen,  my  son!  I  shall  never  come  here 
again.  This  is  my  last  visit.  This  place  is 
intimately  connected  with  all  my  past  life,  its 
joys  and  sorrows.  After  a  long  day  spent  here 
in  peaceful  contemplation,  I  used  to  return  to 


174  THE  KEYNOTE 

your  mother's  room — now  that  she  is  gone,  I 
could  not  bear  the  pain  of  it.  It  is  all  overl 
I  came  to-day,"  he  went  on  falteringly,  with 
half-closed  eyes,  "I  forced  myself  to  come,  for 
your  sake!  I  knew  you  would  not  mind  the 
long  tramp,  and  I  wanted  to  show  you  the 
Cross,  the  spot  I  love  so  well,  where  so  many 
of  my  dreams  have  taken  birth.  Oh,  Anthime 
— boy — if  you  could  only  understand !  If  you 
could  know  what  divine  music  I  have  heard 
here!" 

"Really?"  said  Anthime.  He  could  think 
of  nothing  else  to  say. 

"Yes,  on  stormy  days — when  the  wind 
rushed  from  the  forest  and  swirled  angrily 
among  the  hills.  I  have  said  to  myself:  I 
must  bring  the  boy  here.  I  must  teach  him  to 
hear  the  voice  of  Nature.  His  soul  will  ex- 
pand within  him,  and  he  will  understand." 

Anthime  was  growing  more  and  more  un- 
comfortable in  presence  of  an  enthusiasm  he 
was  utterly  incapable  of  grasping. 

"In  that  case,  Father — of  course — well, 
don't  you  see,  you  must  come  again!  Eh? 
Won't  that  be  best?" 

"No,"  was  the  answer,  given  in  sombre 
tones.  "I  could  not  bear  it.  Since  your 
mother's  death,  and  just  before,  I  have  suffered 


THE  KEYNOTE  175 

too  much.  I  cannot  face  these  things  now,  as 
I  could  when  I  was  a  younger  man.  I  am 
growing  old,  my  boy." 

"Oh  no,"  responded  Anthime,  who  thought 
he  saw  his  way  to  giving  the  conversation  a 
more  cheerful  turn.  "You  are  by  no  means 
old.  Why,  you  should  have  seen  yourself 
striding  along  an  hour  ago!  I  simply  could 
not  keep  up  with  you." 

"Nevertheless,  Anthime,  I  am  old.  You  do 
not  know  what  that  means — and  more  than 
that,  you  do  not  know  what  it  means  to  grow 
old  in  solitude.  When  I  look  forward  to  liv- 
ing out  my  life  alone  here,  without  your 
mother,  without  .  .  .  you  .  .  .  without  a  soul 
I  know  or  care  for,  my  heart  sinks.  I  feel 
overwhelmed — I  am  like  a  rat  in  a  trap.  I 
have  not  the  power  to  change  my  circum- 
stances. The  only  thing  I  wonder  is 
whether  .  .  ." 

He  stopped.  His  heart  beat  fast  He 
scanned  his  son's  features  eagerly.  His  face 
had  the  rapt  look  of  a  believer  awaiting  the 
miracle  for  which  he  has  prayed. 

Anthime  patted  the  worm-holes  with  the 
sole  of  his  foot,  and  looked  nervous. 

"Poor  Father!"  he  murmured.  "I  am 
frightfully  sorry  for  you.     But — " 


17G  THE  KEYNOTE 

"But  what?"  urged  Monsieur  des  Lour  dines 
feverishly.  "What  .  .  .  what  were  you  go- 
ing to  say?" 

Anthime  had  no  idea.  He  had  nothing  to 
say,  but  something  was  expected  of  him,  so  he 
added  lamely: 

"You  must  not  take  all  this  so  terribly  to 
heart." 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  turned  away 
abruptly. 

In  the  far  distance  a  single  shaft  of  sunshine 
still  glowed  above  a  hill.  For  an  instant  he 
stared  at  it  from  beneath  his  frowning  brows, 
then  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  the  lower- 
ing clouds.  He  had  taken  off  his  flapping  hat 
to  cool  the  burning  of  his  temples. 

Slowly  he  turned  and  faced  his  son  once 
more.  He  scrutinised  the  tall,  graceful 
figure  and  handsome  face  already  marked 
with  lines  of  dissipation;  he  recalled  in 
thought  the  active  little  figure  in  knicker- 
bockers and  gaiters  which  had  once  run 
blithely  by  his  side  in  long  country  rambles, 
and  suddenly,  with  pain  unspeakable  that 
seemed  to  sear  his  very  heart,  he  realized  def- 
initely that  he  had  nothing  to  hope  for  in  this 
quarter:  that  there  was  no  answering  gleam 


THE  KEYNOTE  177 

in  the  hazel  eyes  that  met  his  with  a  wonder- 
ing stare. 

His  voice  shook,  as  he  repeated  feebly: 
"You  cannot  imagine  what  it  is  to  grow  old, 
my  son!" 

"But,  Father!" 

"No,  Anthime,  you  cannot.  Moreover  you 
do  not  know  what  it  is  to  love!" 

"Father,  why  do  you  say  that?" 

"I  suppose,"  he  continued  hoarsely,  "you 
anticipate  returning  to  Paris?" 

Anthime  made  no  reply.  There  was  that 
in  the  look  his  father  fixed  upon  him,  that 
dominated  and  restrained  him.  Without 
warning,  the  blood  rushed  to  Monsieur  des 
Lourdines'  cheeks,  his  nostrils  quivered  and 
turned  white. 

"Unnatural  boy!"  he  stormed. 

To  his  own  complete  surprise  he  was  sud- 
denly possessed  by  fury;  he  was  no  longer 
master  of  himself. 

"Heartless,  wicked  son!" 

"What  is  it?  Why  do  you  speak  like  that?" 
stammered  Anthime. 

"Why!  Ah,  why  indeed!  I  raise  my  help- 
less hands  to  you  in  pleading,  and  you  refuse 
to  see  them!     You  close  your  ears  to  my  un- 


178  THE  KEYNOTE 

spoken  prayer!  Very  well.  I  will  no  longer 
be  silent!  I  will  not  spare  you  the  pain  you 
deserve!  Muller  has  written  to  me — I  would 
have  avoided  speaking  of  it,  if  you  had  shown 
one  spark  of  love  or  sympathy  for  me  in  my 
bereaved  old  age.  That  usurer,  that  scamp, 
Muller,  wrote  and  told  me  everything!  No, 
do  not  attempt  to  deny!  I  have  made  every 
inquiry  and  I  should  not  believe  you.  You 
have  again  rolled  up  a  mountain  of  debt — 
twenty- four  thousand  pounds!  Without  a 
thought  of  us,  or  a  hope  of  repayment.  It  is 
unspeakable!  Unforgiveable!  Still,  I  said 
nothing  to  you,  I  tried  to  make  excuses  for  you. 
I  told  myself  you  had  been  thoughtless,  led 
away  by  others.  That  would  have  been  bad 
enough,  but  I  hoped  your  better  self  still  sur- 
vived; I  dreamed  that  the  pangs  of  remorse 
and  filial  affection  would  bring  you  to  me  with 
outstretched  hands  to  crave  forgiveness  and 
offer  the  reparation  of  your  devoted  com- 
panionship. Fool  that  I  was!  Idle  dreamer! 
I  brought  you  here,  to  show  you  the  posses- 
sions of  your  forefathers,  and  appeal  to  your 
hard,  dry  heart.  I  could  still  have  forgiven 
you,  have  made  allowance  for  youth  and  in- 
experience. Had  you  said  to  me  just  now, 
of  your  own  accord,  when  you  still  thought 


THE  KEYNOTE  179 

yourself  possessed  of  the  means  of  independ- 
ence: 'Father,  mother  is  dead,  and  you  are 
lonely!  Let  me  stay  with  you  and  comfort 
you  in  your  desolation!'  Oh,  Anthime,  the 
joy  your  words  would  have  given  me,  would 
have  compensated  for  the  torture  I  have  borne 
in  silence!  I  should  have  felt  almost  happy. 
I  should  have  replied:  'My  boy!  My  child! 
You  have  ruined  me,  you  have  ruined  your- 
self— our  lives  are  blasted — but  at  least  your 
soul  has  emerged  triumphant — at  least  I  still 
possess  your  love !  Come  to  my  arms !  I  for- 
give and  bless  you!' " 

His  voice  died  away.  Emotion  choked 
him. 

Anthime  had  listened  in  stupefied  silence. 
His  mind  was  torn  with  conflicting  senti- 
ments: astonishment  at  the  strength  of  will 
which  had  kept  his  father  silent  until  this 
moment;  anger  with  Muller;  profound  dis- 
comfiture at  seeing  the  financial  worries  he 
had  borne  so  lightly,  treated  so  seriously; 
wonder  as  to  what  his  father  would  decree. 

"But  Father,  I  assure  you,  you  exaggerate 
the  situation.  I  have  borrowed  money 
certainly.  I  found  myself  forced  to  do  so,  to 
carry  out  a  business  enterprise — as  a  matter  of 
fact,   a  breeding  stable.     But  for  goodness' 


180  THE  KEYNOTE 

sake  don't  work  yourself  into  such  a  state! 
These  things  are  done  every  day — I  shall  find 
means  of  paying  up." 

"There  is  one  more  thing  I  wish  to  say," 
continued  Monsieur  des  Lourdines  in  low,  ex- 
hausted accents,  passing  over  without  comment 
the  lie  he  knew  his  son  had  just  told,  and  feel- 
ing that  a  whole  world  separated  the  two: 
"I  intend  to  save  the  honour  of  our  name. 
The  money  shall  be  paid  in  full.  That  is 
understood.  But  in  order  to  do  so,  and  to 
spare  you  the  indignity  of  imprisonment  I 
have  had  to  sell  everything.  The  farms  are 
gone.  Your  inheritance  is  swallowed  up — all 
the  family  possessions  have  passed  out  of  my 
hands.  We  have  only  one  hundred  and 
twenty  pounds  a  year  left  between  us  to  live 
upon,  and  Petit-Fougeray  and  Charviniere. 
Henceforward  we  must  live  like  the  peasants. 
You  must  have  thought  my  fortune  was  inex- 
haustible, you  young  fool!" 

Anthime  had  turned  livid,  as  he  listened  to 
his  father's  faltering  words.  He  now  leaned 
heavily  against  the  stone  cross  for  support: 

"Who  told  you  I  was  so  rich,  eh?" 

Anthime  was  dumb.  His  face  was  dis- 
torted with  horror. 


THE  KEYNOTE  181 

"One  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  a  year! 
Surely  you  are  only  trying  to  frighten  me!" 

"Would  to  God  I  were!"  his  father 
answered  in  accents  so  tortured  that  all  doubt 
was  dispelled  from  Anthime's  mind. 

"You  are  punishing  me,  indeed!" 

"Petit-Fougeray  and  Charviniere  are  all 
that  remain  to  us!" 

"Father,  you  have  never  done  this!  For 
God's  sake,  pause!     Is  there  yet  time?" 

"My  son,  the  affair  is  almost  concluded." 

"My  God,  it's  impossible!  It  cannot,  can- 
not be  true!" 

The  wind  was  freshening.  The  day  drew 
nigh  to  its  close,  in  sober  mood;  instead  of  the 
glowing  crimson,  harbinger  of  a  fine  morrow, 
grey  and  green  clouds  hung  sadly  overhead, 
resting  heavily  on  the  crest  of  the  distant  hills. 

Anthime  had  forgotten  his  manhood.  He 
had  thrown  himself  face  downwards,  and  with 
arms  twined  round  the  foot  of  the  cross,  and 
head  bowed  over  them,  gave  way  under  the 
sudden  shock  and  distress  of  the  news  abruptly 
conveyed  by  his  father's  words.  His  heart- 
broken sobbing  brought  balm  and  relief  to  the 
old  man.     Never  before  had  he  seen  a  tear 


182  THE  KEYNOTE 

in  his  son's  hard  eyes.  Melted  was  his  sudden 
rage,  soothed  his  fretted  nerves.  He  was  glad 
that  he  had  yielded  to  the  generous  impulse 
which  stayed  him  in  the  midst  of  righteous 
wrath  from  informing  that  son  that  his 
mother's  death  lay  at  his  door. 

Presently  Anthime  raised  his  tear-stained 
face : 

"Father,  can  you  ever  forgive  me!" 

"My  boy,  my  boy,  I  also  am  guilty!  I 
neglected  you !  I  ought  to  have  talked  more 
to  you  when  you  were  young.  It  is  my  fault 
as  much  as  yours,  and  we  must  bear  the  penalty 
together." 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  the  Cross  which  now 
towered  dark  and  threatening  in  the  dusk, 
above  the  prone  figure  of  his  son.  A  gust  of 
superstitious  fear  shook  him.  He  seized  him 
by  the  arm:  "Anthime,  Anthime!  Come! 
Come  away!  Let  us  get  away  from  this 
place!" 

Together  they  started  hurriedly  down-hill. 
Anthime  moved  like  a  man  under  the  influ- 
ence of  drink.  He  stumbled  over  rocks, 
caught  his  feet  in  the  gorse  and  brambles. 
He  drew  insensibly  nearer  to  his  father,  and 
surrendered  himself  to  his  guidance.  The 
latter  knew  instinctively  that  had  the  young 


THE  KEYNOTE  183 

man  been  alone  he  would  have  fallen  blindly 
into  every  pitfall.  They  walked  close  to- 
gether, in  mournful  silence. 

In  the  forest  Anthime  plunged  straight  into 
the  slimy  mud  he  had  so  carefully  avoided  an 
hour  earlier.  Monsieur  des  Lourdines'  spirits 
rose  at  the  sight. 

The  darkness  under  the  trees  was  almost 
impenetrable.  The  men  struggled  forward 
in  the  eye  of  a  gusty  wind,  which  bellied  out 
the  skirts  of  their  cloaks  and  swung  the 
branches  across  their  path.  Slowly  the  moon 
rose  in  the  sky. 

They  arrived  at  Petit-Fougeray,  very  late, 
very  jaded.  The  servants  who  had  been  look- 
ing out  anxiously  for  them,  met  them  with 
lamps  raised  to  look  into  their  faces,  wonder- 
ing curiously  what  could  have  befallen  them. 
Anthime  drew  the  collar  of  his  cloak  above  his 
quivering  lips;  Monsieur  des  Lourdines  ex- 
plained the  reason  of  their  delay  in  incoherent 
terms.  The  warm  scent  of  the  cabbage  soup 
and  the  cosy  light  of  the  kitchen  penetrated 
gratefully  to  his  chilled  senses. 

Anthime  refused  the  offer  of  food.  He 
wanted  nothing;  but  his  father,  half  fainting 
with  fatigue,  sat  down  to  a  great  bowl  of 


184  THE  KEYNOTE 

smoking  broth  and  a  hunch  of  home-made 
bread.  Anthime  went  straight  to  his  room. 
His  throat  was  burning;  he  gulped  down  a 
draught  of  cool  water,  and  threw  himself  just 
as  he  was  on  his  bed.  There  he  lay  on  his 
back  for  hours,  staring  vacantly  into  the  dark- 
ness. He  shed  no  more  tears;  he  was  too  ut- 
terly crushed  for  any  active  sensation.  Life 
was  over;  he  was  at  the  bottom  of  a  yawning 
abyss,  the  sides  of  which  had  crumbled  in  and 
were  stifling  the  breath  in  his  lungs.  Ruined! 
Penniless!  Everything  finished,  while  youth 
still  ran  in  his  veins!  The  thought  was  un- 
speakably awful!  Hitherto  pleasure  and  ex- 
citement had  been  his  portion ;  now,  the  future 
held  nothing  more  for  him.  It  meant  anni- 
hilation!    Great  God! 

Later,  a  kind  of  delirium  took  possession  of 
him.  The  words:  "I  have  no  more  money 
— I  have  no  more  money,"  formed  themselves 
on  his  lips  and  escaped  him  unconsciously,  in 
ceaseless  repetition.  He  remembered  friends 
of  his,  the  gayest  of  the  gay,  who  had  suddenly 
gone  under  and  disappeared  from  ken.  He 
had  hardly  given  them  a  thought  at  the  time, 
had  certainly  not  realised  what  they  were  go- 
ing through.  Was  he  to  join  their  ranks? 
Cheery  little  de  Melliere,  ruined,  had  blown 


THE  KEYNOTE  185 

out  his  brains.  De  Mierne,  that  good-looking 
boy,  ruined,  had  joined  the  Foreign  Legion 
as  a  private.  De  Flibure,  ruined,  was  never 
seen  again.  There  were  others,  too.  No  one 
mentioned  their  names;  they  had  simply 
passed  into  outer  darkness,  and  the  memory  of 
their  bright  personalities  and  gay  pranks  had 
faded  from  men's  minds.  How  on  earth  had 
he  managed  to  share  their  fate! 

He  hardly  knew  where  the  money  had  gone. 
Cards?  Yes,  he  had  gambled  certainly,  reck- 
lessly. Women?  He  had  prided  himself  on 
paying  handsomely  for  his  pleasures;  his  fav- 
ourites had  feathered  their  nests  well.  Still, 
he  could  hardly  account  for  that  great, 
vast,  horrible  sum  of  twenty-four  thousand 
pounds! 

Now  he  must  endure  a  living  death  at  Petit- 
Fougeray,  alone  with  his  father.  His  boon 
companions  would  shrug  their  shoulders  and 
say  one  to  the  other:  "Do  you  remember  that 
chap,  des  Lourdines?  He  went  the  pace. 
He  has  gone  under.     Done  for!" 

Oh,  impossible!  Surely,  surely,  there  must 
be  some  way  out!  But  no — as  easily  raise  his 
mother  from  her  cold  grave,  as  find  twenty- 
four  thousand  pounds  for  that  damnable  Jew, 
Muller. 


186  THE  KEYNOTE 

His  father,  lying  on  the  other  side  of  the 
wall,  heard  his  heart-broken  groans,  and  pitied 
him  with  the  kindly  compassion  of  age  for 
youth.     "Poor  boy!     He  is  taking  it  hard  1" 


T 


CHAPTER  XI 

(i^r  I  ^HIS  is  the  end  of  all  thingsl" 
moaned  Perrine,  as  she  placed  the 
thick  bowls  of  coffee  on  the  table 
at  which  her  fellow  servants  had  already 
drawn  up  their  chairs  for  the  afternoon  colla- 
tion. 

She  cut  big  wedges  of  bread  and  butter,  as 
she  spoke. 

"The  end  of  all  things!  Try  and  eat  a 
morsel,  my  poor  Celestinl" 

Their  fate  had  been  known  to  them  for  some 
days;  in  fact,  they  knew  far  more  than  their 
master  suspected.  The  reason  was  not  far 
to  seek.  Lamarzelliere's  housekeeper  was  not 
likely  to  listen  at  the  keyhole  during  business 
hours  for  nothing! 

"Can't  be  helped !  It  would  be  worse  to  be 
dead!"  observed  Frederic  philosophically,  be- 
tween mouthfuls.  He  was  not  under  notice 
to  go. 

"Death  is  the  one  thing  we've  all  got  to  face, 
all  the  same!"  answered  Celestin  gloomily. 

187 


188  THE  KEYNOTE 

He  was  to  leave  Petit-Fougeray  on  the  next 
day  but  one.  Forty-three  years  of  his  life  had 
been  spent  under  its  roof.  He  had  come  there 
as  a  little  shepherd  boy  of  twelve,  and  he  was 
now  a  grizzled,  prematurely  aged  man  of 
fifty-five.  At  the  thought  his  throat  tight- 
ened; he  pulled  at  his  collar,  his  arms  felt 
heavy  as  lead.  Jealousy  tormented  him  too, 
for  Frederic  could  not  be  spared,  on  account 
of  the  mare,  which  was  absolutely  necessary 
for  the  service  of  the  house. 

"Don't  talk  of  death,"  put  in  Perrine.  "It's 
bad  enough  to  have  to  see  the  innocent  pun- 
ished. I've  felt  it  coming  this  long  while. 
When  Monsieur  Anthime  began  deceiving 
his  mother  years  ago,  I  used  to  notice  how 
Master,  who  is  a  saint  if  ever  there  was  one, 
shut  his  eyes  to  it.  I  could  say  nothing,  for 
an  outsider,  however  devoted,  may  not  meddle 
in  such  private  matters;  but  I  grieved,  for  I 
felt  that  some  day  Master  would  have  to 
suffer.  They  were  so  proud  of  that  boy  that 
they  simply  could  not  bear  to  thwart  him — 
so  they  never  trained  him  at  all,  and  now  he's 
only  just  missed  being  put  into  prison.  Ah, 
he'll  never  be  anything  like  his  father!" 

"His  father!"  repeated  Celestin,  frowning 


THE  KEYNOTE  189 

heavily.  "No,  indeed!  His  father  is  a  good 
man,  and  a  good  master." 

"It's  all  very  well  for  you  two  to  abuse 
Monsieur  Anthime  like  that,"  said  Frederic, 
joining  in  the  conversation;  "but  I  know  him 
quite  as  well  as  you  do — perhaps  a  bit  better. 
There's  no  harm  in  the  boy.  He  loved  pleas- 
ure, and  he's  ruined  himself  for  it — but  he's 
warm-hearted  and  generous.  He's  one  of 
those  who  never  ask  for  change  out  of  a  sover- 
eign." 

Perrine  stopped  for  a  moment  in  her  task  of 
spreading  bread-and-butter  for  the  hungry 
household. 

"I  think  he  has  no  consideration  for  other 
people.  Why,  one  Sunday,  when  I  was  on 
my  way  to  Vespers,  I  met  him  riding  his  big 
chestnut  mare — you  remember  the  one,  Fred- 
eric. All  of  a  sudden  it  stumbled  and  came 
down,  and  Monsieur  Anthime  rolled  in  the 
mud.  I  screamed,  and  ran  up,  and  there  he 
was,  sitting  on  the  ground  taking  off  his  spurs, 
and  he  calmly  handed  them  to  me  and  asked 
me  to  take  them  home  for  him.  I  had  to  go 
to  church  carrying  a  pair  of  spurs  as  long  as 
my  arm.  I  couldn't  hide  them  anywhere. 
Everybody  was  laughing  at  me — Monsieur  le 
Cure,  and  all.     I  didn't  know  where  to  look. 


190  THE  KEYNOTE 

I  tell  you  he  thinks  of  nobody  but  himself. 
And  think  of  the  scandals  he  has  been  mixed 
up  in  I  All  those  fast  women  he  has  taken  up 
with!  Don't  tell  me!  My  poor  Master  has 
enough  trouble.  It  makes  my  heart  bleed  to 
see  him  walk  about  with  his  head  hanging,  so 
sad  and  so  stern.  And  that  great  brute 
there,"  she  added  angrily  pointing  at  Michka, 
who  lay  at  his  ease  on  the  hearth,  "look  at  him ! 
Did  you  ever  see  such  a  great  long  ugly 
snout!" 

"I've  told  you  a  hundred  times  already," 
said  Frederic,  "that  Michka  is  a  Russian  grey- 
hound. If  he  hadn't  that  peculiar  nose  he 
wouldn't  be  a  Russian  greyhound.  I've  seen 
plenty  of  them,  and  I  know.  It's  easy  to  tell, 
Perrine,  that  you've  never  been  to  Russia  or 
Moscow." 

"Oh,  bother  your  old  Moscow!  I  think  it 
was  the  devil  shaped  this  dog's  nose,  not 
Moscow,  nor  Russia  either.  Get  out,  you 
brute!     Out  of  my  kitchen!     Off  with  you!" 

She  flapped  a  dish  cloth  at  him.  Michka 
opened  his  eyes  and  raised  himself  on  his  fore- 
paws. 

"Let  the  poor  beast  warm  himself,"  advised 
Frederic  comfortably.     "He's  done  no  harm." 

But      Perrine      advanced      threateningly. 


THE  KEYNOTE  191 

Michka  rose  and  trotted  slowly  out,  his  claws 
clicking  on  the  brick  floor. 

"Brute  of  a  dog!" 

At  the  same  moment  Estelle  hurried  in,  rosy 
and  excited. 

"Well,  what  did  he  say?"  questioned  Per- 
rine. 

"Oh,  he  has  been  so  kind!"  answered  Estelle, 
in  a  quivering  voice.  "He  said  he  thoroughly 
approved  of  my  marrying  Joseph,  and  that 
Joseph  was  a  good  lad,  and  that  I  must  be  a 
good  mother  to  the  children  that  would  come 
to  us,  and  train  them  up  in  the  right  way." 

"He  may  well  advise  that,  poor  man!" 

"But  that's  not  all;  he  added:  'You're  a 
good  girl,  Estelle.  You  looked  after  Ma- 
dame well,  and  now  that  you  are  going  to  be 
married,  I  should  like  you  to  have  something 
to  remember  her  by.'  And  then  he  took  me 
to  her  room  and  gave  me  these  two  dresses: 
'There,  my  child,'  he  said,  'you  can  make  your- 
self some  finery  out  of  these.'  And,  do  look, 
Perrine,"  continued  Estelle,  looking  radiant, 
"they  are  absolutely  pure  silk!" 

Perrine  felt  the  stuff  knowingly. 

"My  goodness,  so  they  are!  Pure  silk! 
You  are  in  luck,  child.  I  should  not  have 
dared  accept  them." 


192  THE  KEYNOTE 

While  the  dresses  were  being  passed  from 
hand  to  hand,  a  gig  rolled  past  the  windows 
and  stopped  at  the  kitchen  door. 

"Good-day  to  you  all!"  exclaimed  a  loud, 
hearty  voice.  "By  Jove,  you  are  cosy  in  here! 
It  is  pretty  cold  outside.  Is  your  master  at 
home?" 

"I  will  send  and  ask,"  replied  Perrine,  look- 
ing inquiringly  at  the  big  fat  man  whom  she 
could  not  remember  to  have  seen  before.  He 
stood  before  her  in  iron-shod  boots  and  a  huge, 
circular  leather  cloak,  a  broad  smile  lighting 
up  his  good-natured  countenance.  "Whom 
shall  I  say?" 

"He  is  expecting  me.  I  am  the  horse- 
dealer,  and  have  come  to  look  at  his  nags." 

"Very  well.  Estelle  will  run  up  and  tell 
the  master.  Won't  you  sit  down  meanwhile, 
and  have  something  to  eat  and  drink?" 

"Thank  you.  I'll  take  a  glass  of  cider  with 
great  pleasure." 

Estelle  found  Monsieur  des  Lourdines  in  his 
room,  gloomily  endeavouring  to  coax  a  smoky 
fire  into  flame. 

After  the  scene  with  his  son  on  the  hill-top, 
he  had  cherished  a  faint  hope  of  seeing  him 
change  his  manner  and  throw  himself  into  the 


THE  KEYNOTE  193 

new  life  with  some  degree  of  pluck  and  en- 
ergy. But  such  hope  was  already  dying  out. 
Anthime  maintained  an  attitude  of  sulky  re- 
serve and  kept  away,  loafing  about  idly  by 
himself. 

Now  the  old  dread  was  agitating  the  un- 
happy father:  he  feared  that  the  hot-headed, 
reckless  Anthime  would  leave  home  again. 

"Where  on  earth  would  he  find  means  to 
provide  for  his  livelihood?" 

Yet  that  consideration  alone  would  not  be 
sufficient  to  keep  him  at  Petit- Fougeray,  if  he 
were  minded  to  transfer  his  penury  elsewhere. 
What  would  become  of  the  unhappy  boy, 
without  money,  among  strangers!  As  for 
himself,  the  idea  of  remaining  utterly  alone  in 
the  desolate  fastness  of  his  once  happy  home, 
filled  him  with  horror.  The  solitude  he  had 
loved  would  be  changed  into  a  desert  peopled 
with  ghosts;  the  very  thought  made  him 
shudder. 

Sitting  before  the  remains  of  his  wretched 
fire,  he  thought  out  plan  after  plan  to  attract 
Anthime  and  keep  him  by  his  side. 

"Surely  we  can  find  something  to  amuse 
him!  He  can  always  shoot.  And  we  might 
play  cards  in  the  evenings.  He  loves  cards. 
I  will  learn,  and  he  can  have  his  game  every 


194  THE  KEYNOTE 

night."  He  himself  would  go  for  cross-coun- 
try tramps  as  in  the  old  days,  and  would  re- 
sume his  violin-playing.  How  he  had  missed 
his  violin!  He  had  not  touched  it  since  the 
awful  night  that  inaugurated  the  sorrows  of 
the  past  few  weeks.  Yet  it  was  the  only  rem- 
nant of  his  fortune  he  had  been  able  to  pre- 
serve intact.  It  alone  had  not  changed;  it 
was  still  his  friend,  confidant,  and  servant, 
ready  ever,  to  provide  consolation. 

The  consciousness  of  this  power  within  him 
to  forget  and  enjoy  almost  reconciled  him  to 
the  prospect  of  a  modest  existence,  buried  at 
Petit- Fougeray,  with  a  converted  Anthime  for 
sole  companion.  Their  life  would  be  calm 
and  uneventful ;  each  going  his  own  way  with- 
out interfering  with  the  other,  but  always 
ready  with  sympathy  or  assistance.  "Yes.  I 
could  bear  it — a  roof,  and  food,  and  pleasant 
companionship — but  could  Anthime?" 

"All  right,  Estelle!  Say  I  will  be  down  in 
an  instant." 

The  splendid  animals  seemed  to  scent  admi- 
ration when  the  men  entered  their  loose-boxes ; 
they  arched  their  proud  necks,  pawed  the 
ground,  and  threw  up  their  handsome  heads 


THE  KEYNOTE  195 

to  stare  at  the  intruders  with  velvety  eyes  over- 
shadowed by  heavy  forelocks. 

The  dealer  looked  them  carefully  over  in 
silence;  he  was  versed  in  the  art  of  banishing 
all  expression  from  his  countenance.  He  ex- 
amined their  teeth,  ran  his  fingers  down  their 
legs,  and  asked  to  see  their  paces.  Monsieur 
des  Lourdines  gnawed  his  nails  and  looked 
from  the  man  to  the  horses,  and  back  again. 
He  could  not  bear  to  sell,  yet  feared  to  fail  in 
disposing  of  them. 

"They  are  fine  animals,"  he  hazarded. 
"My  wife  was  proud  of  them.  They  have 
done  a  certain  amount  of  work,  but — " 

The  dealer  beat  his  arms  on  his  chest,  and 
looked  critically  at  the  clouds. 

"We  shall  have  some  snow  before  long,"  he 
remarked,  with  a  shiver. 

Frederic  led  out  one  of  the  horses  and  en- 
deavoured to  make  him  trot,  but  he  hung 
back.  The  dealer  went  behind,  clapped  his 
hands,  raked  the  gravel  with  his  boot,  and 
made  hissing  noises.  The  horse  tossed  his 
head  and  trotted  off,  but  at  the  turn,  when  he 
no  longer  felt  himself  pursued,  he  relapsed 
into  a  walk.     The  dealer  grunted. 

"Once  more!"  he  ordered. 


196  THE  KEYNOTE 

This  time  he  ran  alongside,  kicking  up  the 
gravel,  beating  a  devil's  tattoo  in  his  hat  with 
the  handle  of  his  whip,  leaping  and  shouting 
like  a  playful  buffalo  gone  mad. 

The  performance  was  repeated  with  the  sec- 
ond animal:  clapping  of  hands,  raking  of 
gravel,  waving  of  hat — but,  like  his  comrade, 
the  Pomeranian  walked  soberly  on  the  home- 
ward turn. 

Frederic,  old  and  stiff,  panted  with  the  un- 
wonted exertion. 

Anthime,  attracted  by  the  noise,  lounged 
round  a  corner  and  stood  watching,  leaning 
against  a  hen-house  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets.  Monsieur  des  Lourdines  caught  his 
breath  when  he  saw  how  pale  and  heavy-eyed 
he  looked.     The  dealer  did  not  recognise  him. 

"Hi,  sir!  Hullo!  Will  you  make  a  noise 
behind  that  beast  and  get  him  to  trot?" 

"Anthime!"  called  out  Monsieur  des  Lour- 
dines, as  if  seconding  the  dealer's  request;  but 
in  reality  the  cry  was  wrung  from  him  by  the 
sight  of  his  son's  gloom. 

Anthime  however  disappeared  hurriedly. 
He  walked  round  the  outhouses,  entered  the 
store-room  by  the  back  door,  and,  stumbling 
over  stray  potatoes  and  onions  on  the  brick 


THE  KEYNOTE  107 

floor,  took  up  his  position  at  a  dormer-window, 
whence  he  could  survey  the  scene  unobserved. 
He  felt  as  if  he  were  in  a  dream.  The  horse 
was  trotting,  bending  his  swan-like  neck  to- 
wards Frederic,  who  held  the  rein  and  la- 
boured at  his  side;  the  bushy  black  mane  and 
tail  flew  out  behind.  At  the  sound  of  the 
dealer's  "Whoa!  Whoa,  then!"  the  fiery  ani- 
mal stopped  suddenly,  dug  his  hoofs  into  the 
gravel,  snorted,  arched  his  neck,  and  gazed  in 
the  direction  of  his  comfortable  stable. 

Anthime  watched.  He  would  have  given 
anything  to  interfere  and  prevent  the  sale,  but 
with  the  sensation  of  dreaming  still  upon  him, 
could  neither  move  nor  cry  out.  Now  the 
horses  are  being  ranged  side  by  side,  their 
backs  and  legs  felt,  eyes  tested;  then,  leaning 
his  elbows  upon  their  quarters,  the  dealer 
speaks.  Anthime  sees  his  father's  lips  move, 
Frederic's  red  neck  sink  sulkily  between  his 
shoulders.  The  dealer  grasps  Monsieur  des 
Lourdines'  unwilling  hand,  plaits  straws  into 
the  horses'  tails,  ties  them  one  behind  the  other 
to  his  gig,  gets  in,  changes  the  position  of  the 
seat,  laughs  at  some  joke  of  his  own  making, 
pulls  his  comforter  over  his  mouth,  waves  his 
hat,  and  drives  off,  followed  by  the  two  Pom- 
eranians, with  their  handsome  heads  done  up 


198  THE  KEYNOTE 

in  the  serge  bridles  used  by  the  peasants 
locally,  to  lead  horses  to  market. 

All  this  Anthime  saw,  and  when  it  was  over, 
he  ran  from  the  store-room  and  fled  blindly, 
he  knew  not  where.  He  scrambled  through 
thickets  and  evergreens,  and  followed  the  path 
down  to  the  wall  whence  he  had  talked  to  the 
little  girls,  from  his  seat  on  Count  Caradec's 
back. 

He  rested  his  hands  upon  the  wall,  and  his 
head  upon  them. 

He  could  still  hear  in  imagination  the  odi- 
ous voice  and  fat  laugh  of  the  dealer  who  was 
even  now  carrying  off  the  last  tangible  evi- 
dence of  the  state  the  des  Lourdines  family 
had  hitherto  maintained  in  the  countryside. 

So  far  Anthime  had  been  spared  the  actual 
sight  of  the  sacrifices  entailed  by  his  miscon- 
duct; but  now  the  awful  reality  was  driven 
home  to  his  brain  by  the  evidence  of  his  own 
senses.  Haggard  and  wan  of  face  he  clung 
convulsively  to  the  dusty  ivy  on  the  coping  of 
the  wall.  Oh,  were  flight  and  oblivion  only 
possible! 

From  childhood  he  had  been  accustomed 
to  give  full  rein  to  every  emotion,  whether 
pleasurable  or  otherwise.  He  had  ignored 
the  meaning  of  self-control;  had  never  tested 


THE  KEYNOTE  199 

his  powers  of  resistance;  thus  he  collapsed  ut- 
terly under  the  first  onslaught  of  ill-fortune. 
Of  the  brilliant  man  of  fashion,  there  re- 
mained but  a  poor  unstrung  image  of  woe. 
His  friends  would  hardly  have  known  him; 
his  eyes  were  dull,  his  cheeks  flabby,  his  lips 
hung  loose.  He  stood  motionless  among  the 
falling  leaves,  his  feet  in  the  damp  grass. 
The  wind  howled  and  the  trees  waved  their 
sodden  boughs.  Around  him  reigned  death 
and  decay;  in  his  heart,  despair. 

"My  God!"  he  cried,  raising  his  arms  and 
clenching  his  fists.  "If  I  could  only  undo  it 
all!" 

Alas,  that  futile  cry  of  humanity:  give  me 
my  time  again! 

The  sound  of  his  own  voice  startled  him, 
and  he  moved  away,  following  the  line  of  the 
wall.  A  dry  crackling  sound  reached  his  ears 
from  the  other  side.     He  leant  over. 

He  saw  an  aged  crone  bent  double  among 
the  cabbages,  picking  up  sticks.  Her  wide 
hips  in  their  voluminous  skirts  were  turned 
towards  him.  As  he  looked,  she  raised  her- 
self as  if  to  ease  her  aching  back,  and  gave  a 
slight  hopeless  shrug  of  the  shoulders — evi- 
dently times  were  not  good,  from  her  point  of 
view,  either. 


200  THE  KEYNOTE 

To  Anthime  came  a  queer  fancy:  he  and 
she  had  been  brought  to  the  same  level  by 
the  relentless  force  of  fate;  he,  like  her,  was 
a  puppet,  shoved  hither  and  thither,  with- 
out power  of  resistance.  Instinctively  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  imitating  her  gesture 
of  dumb  resignation. 


CHAPTER  XII 

ONE  morning  a  couple  of  days  later  he 
was  lying  on  his  bed ;  it  had  become  his 
habitual  place  of  refuge,  and  he  only 
left  it  for  meals.  The  grounds  inspired  him 
with  insupportable  repugnance;  he  felt  he 
could  never  walk  in  them  again. 

He  lay  with  his  head  buried  in  the  pillows 
brooding  as  usual  on  the  cruelty  of  fate,  curs- 
ing the  wretchedness  of  his  lot,  anticipating 
with  craven  fear  the  dreariness  of  the  future 
spread  before  him.  The  slightest  noise  of 
disturbance  in  the  house  rasped  his  fretted 
nerves. 

Michka  no  longer  lived  in  his  room.  The 
sight  of  the  greyhound  exasperated  him. 
When  he  laid  his  paws  on  the  bed,  seeking  a 
caress,  he  brought  back  all  too  vividly  the 
careless  luxurious  days  of  the  past,  and  his 
master  would  push  him  away  with  an  oath. 

On  the  morning  in  question,  he  lay  idly 
looking  at  the  roses  on  the  wallpaper,  trying 
to  trace  among  the  bunches  the  figures  of  a 

201 


202  THE  KEYNOTE 

man  and  a  bull  he  used  to  imagine,  weirdly 
outlined,  during  the  delirium  of  an  attack  of 
measles,  in  early  childhood.  He  used  to 
amuse  himself  by  the  hour,  with  the  fictitious 
adventures  of  the  two. 

He  watched  them  now  till  he  was  tired  and 
then  turned  on  his  side  with  a  yawn  and  a 
stretch.  At  the  same  moment  his  attention  was 
arrested  by  a  violent  noise,  apparently  caused 
by  kicks  from  a  sabot,  on  the  outer  gate  of  the 
courtyard.  As  the  gate  was  not  opened  in- 
stantly, the  kicking  recommenced,  and  a  tattoo 
was  kept  up  until  with  squeaks  and  groans  the 
great  oaken  portal  turned  on  its  hinges. 

Anthime  could  survey  the  scene  from  his 
bed.  He  looked  on  idly,  and  saw  Frederic 
arguing  with  a  stout  peasant-woman,  whom  he 
presently  admitted ;  she  led  in  an  old-fashioned 
hooded  cart,  drawn  by  a  dapple-grey  horse, 
whose  tattered  blinkers  flapped  backwards  and 
forwards  in  the  breeze  like  unfastened  shut- 
ters. 

Anthime  had  already  forgotten  the  episode 
when  he  heard  Frederic  knock  at  his  father's 
door  and  inform  him  that  Celestin's  sister  had 
arrived. 

He  understood  at  once  the  signification  of 
her  appearance,   and  a  pang  of  regret  shot 


THE  KEYNOTE  203 

through  him.  Celestin  and  Estelle  were  leav- 
ing, and  the  woman  had  doubtless  come  to 
fetch  them  away.  He  wondered  how  he 
should  bear  to  take  leave  of  them,  knowing 
full  well  that  he  alone  was  responsible  for  the 
parting. 

How  should  he  look?  What  should  he  say? 
Could  he  let  them  go  without  expressing  his 
regret?  He  was  fully  conscious,  though  no 
word  had  been  uttered  in  his  hearing,  that  the 
servants  were  aware  of  his  misdeeds,  and  were 
not  sparing  of  their  comments  thereon. 

He  flushed  angrily  at  this  reflection. 
Shame  bit  into  his  being,  but  it  was  the  wrong 
sort  of  shame — it  was  less  remorse  at  having 
squandered  a  fortune,  than  humiliation  at  be- 
ing reduced  to  poverty.  He  weighed  the 
chances  of  avoiding  the  farewell  scene  alto- 
gether. He  did  not  know  what  time  had  been 
fixed  for  the  departure.  If  it  was  at  once,  he 
had  but  to  remain  in  the  seclusion  of  his  cham- 
ber; but  as  his  father  did  not  stir,  there  was 
probably  no  hurry.  It  would  certainly  be 
against  all  the  traditions  of  the  chateau  that  a 
visitor  should  depart  without  the  hospitality 
of  a  meal,  and  a  feed  and  rest  for  the  horse. 

There  was  probably  no  escape  for  him.  He 
would  have  to  face  it. 


204  THE  KEYNOTE 

He  rose  with  the  heavy  sigh  of  a  man  whose 
burthen  is  greater  than  he  can  bear,  and  leant 
out  of  the  window.  Yes,  the  horse  was  no- 
where in  sight,  and  the  cart  stood  against  the 
wall  with  the  shafts  upraised. 

The  courtyard  was  deserted.  A  few  flakes 
of  snow  floated  softly  down.  The  cold  was 
piercing.  Anthime  shivered,  closed  the  win- 
dow, and  got  back  into  bed. 

He  and  his  father  met  at  luncheon.  Mon- 
sieur des  Lourdines  was  as  dejected  as  his  son. 
His  eyelids  were  reddened  and  swollen.  A 
comradeship  of  forty  years  was  about  to  be 
severed.  For  three-fourths  of  a  lifetime,  mas- 
ter and  man  had  laboured  together  for  the  im- 
provement of  the  property;  the  master  had 
planned,  discussed,  and  superintended,  the 
man  had  executed.  It  was  Celestin  who  had 
laid  out  the  paths  to  the  river,  dug  the  trenches 
for  the  draining  of  the  meadows,  erected  the 
hen-houses,  and  sheep-folds.  His  handiwork 
could  be  traced  all  over  the  dwelling-house  as 
well;  rafters  repaired,  locks  mended,  mouse- 
holes  stopped,  doors  rehung.  Celestin  could 
do  everything  in  the  carpentering  line,  al- 
though he  had  never  been  taught — he  was,  be- 
sides, resourceful,  good-tempered,  kindly,  and 


THE  KEYNOTE  205 

hard-working.  His  loss  could  never  be  re- 
placed; a  portion  of  Monsieur  des  Lourdines' 
soul  seemed  to  wither,  with  the  exit  of  this 
trusted  friend  and  companion  from  the  daily 
life  of  Petit-Fougeray!  He  did  not  utter  a 
single  word  during  the  meal,  but  as  he  rose 
from  the  table,  he  said: 

"Estelle  and  Celestin  are  going  away.  You 
must.  ...  I  should  like  you  to  bid  them 
farewell,  Anthime." 

They  left  the  dining-room,  Anthime  walk- 
ing behind  his  father.  He  followed  him  to- 
wards the  kitchen,  but  stopped  abruptly  when 
he  saw  him  open  the  door. 

A  buzz  of  excited  chatter,  led  by  the  shrill 
voice  of  Perrine,  ceased  simultaneously;  a  hot 
smell  of  food  and  humanity  escaped  into  the 
passage ;  he  heard  the  servants  push  back  their 
seats  and  rise. 

His  father  entered,  leaving  the  door  ajar. 
He  was  on  the  point  of  following,  and  would 
doubtless  have  done  so,  had  not  the  profound 
silence  been  hesitatingly  broken  by  a  voice,  the 
voice  of  his  father:  "My  very  good  friends," 
it  faltered.  Horror  of  horrors!  Perhaps  he 
also  would  have  to  address  the  household. 

Furtively  he  turned  away  on  tiptoe  and 
escaped  into  the  courtyard.     He  mooned  about 


206  THE  KEYNOTE 

with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  but  kept  out  of 
sight  of  the  kitchen  windows.  Even  outside 
he  could  smell  the  hot  food. 

Perrine  had  provided  a  feast  for  the  last 
meal  Estelle  and  Celestin  were  to  partake  of 
in  the  chateau.  She  had  also  completed  the 
party  by  inviting  some  little  children  who 
occasionally  gave  their  services  in  the  fields, 
herding  the  cows  or  pigs.  She  wished  them 
to  see  the  last  of  the  departing  servants. 

Anthime  dawdled  in  the  courtyard  shiver- 
ing. He  longed  to  go  away  and  hide,  in  spite 
of  the  contempt  such  conduct  would  arouse. 
But  he  lingered,  thinking  every  moment  would 
be  the  last;  he  cast  searching  glances  at  the 
windows,  listened  to  the  murmur  of  conver- 
sation. His  father  was  in  the  midst  of  it,  a 
friend  among  friends,  whilst  he  waited  outside 
alone!  By  his  own  actions  he  had  cut  himself 
off  and  would  remain  for  ever,  outcast  and 
lonely.  Shame  and  solitude  must  henceforth 
be  his  lot! 

Snow  began  to  fall  faster.  He  felt  the  chill 
of  it  on  hands  and  face. 

He  saw  Celestin  go  into  the  garden,  and 
turn  towards  the  orchard:  the  old  man  moved 
automatically,  and  stumbled  as  if  his  sight 
failed  him. 


THE  KEYNOTE  207 

Then  Frederic  crossed  the  courtyard  on  his 
way  to  the  stables. 

The  sound  of  voices  increased  in  volume. 
A  skirt  fluttered  upon  the  threshold  but  with- 
drew again,  as  though  the  person  on  the  point 
of  coming  out  had  thought  better  of  it. 

Now,  a  new  impulse  he  did  not  seek  to  re- 
sist, drove  Anthime  forward.  His  hair  and 
eyelashes  were  white  with  snowflakes.  He 
could  hear  Frederic  soliloquizing  while  he 
slipped  the  harness  on  to  the  old  woman's 
horse,  and  the  dull  thud  of  the  latter's  hoofs 
moving  about  in  the  stall  during  the  opera- 
tion. 

He  looked  in  at  the  kitchen  door  and  saw 
people,  piles  of  plates,  the  brass  pendulum  of 
the  grandfather's  clock  swinging  relentlessly 
to  and  fro;  he  heard  some  one  say: 

"It's  coming  on  fast.  You  ought  to  be 
moving." 

"Must  expect  snow  at  this  time  of  year. 
Where  are  your  traps,  Estelle?" 

The  children,  two  boys  and  a  girl,  came  out 
and  seeing  him,  made  their  quaint  little  bows, 
smiling  shyly  into  his  face. 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  made  him  a  sign  to 
enter.  Frederic,  leading  the  horse  to  the  cart, 
cut   off  his   retreat   from   behind.     He   was 


208  THE  KEYNOTE 

caught  at  last.  A  hush  fell  upon  the  little 
company;  all  the  tearful  eyes  and  swollen 
faces  turned  to  him.  He  was  greeted  in  re- 
spectfully friendly  fashion.  He  could  detect 
no  shade  of  coldness,  a  fact  which  somewhat 
restored  his  equanimity.  Celestin's  sister 
alone  managed  to  introduce  into  the  manner 
of  her  curtsey  something  of  the  contempt  the 
ordinary  peasant  feels  towards  a  superior  be- 
reft of  his  supremacy  of  wealth  and  position. 
A  tingling  flush  rose  to  Anthime's  cheeks. 

"  Won't  you  sit  down,  my  son?  "  asked  his 
father. 

"As  the  poor  fellow  has  no  wife,"  the  woman 
said,  continuing  the  speech  Anthime's  entrance 
had  interrupted,  "he  will  of  course  be  welcome 
to  a  place  at  our  chimney  corner  and  a  crust 
of  bread.     That  is  always  something." 

"Ready!"  announced  Frederic,  scraping  his 
sabots  at  the  door.  "I  have  put  the  horse  in 
the  cart." 

"Have  you?"  answered  the  woman.  "Then, 
I  suppose  if  everything  .  .  ." 

Estelle  threw  herself  on  to  the  settle  and 
burst  into  loud  weeping. 

"Couldn't  you  let  her  recover  herself  a  lit- 
tle, first?"  suggested  Monsieur  des  Lourdines, 
looking  uncomfortably  from  one  to  the  other. 


THE  KEYNOTE  209 

"I  would  willingly,  but  the  day  is  closing  in, 
and  my  old  gee  is  not  a  flyer.  One  has  to  keep 
whipping  him  all  the  time,"  and  the  woman 
pinned  her  shawl  resolutely  across  her  ample 
bosom.  Estelle,  her  face  buried  in  her  hand- 
kerchief, sobbed  on  unrestrainedly,  with  heav- 
ing shoulders. 

Anthime  stood  miserably  by,  staring  at  the 
fire.  Perrine  signed  to  Monsieur  des  Lour- 
dines  that  the  scene  had  better  not  be  pro- 
longed and  leant  over  the  girl,  speaking  gently 
and  patting  her  arm. 

"Come,  come,  my  child — dry  those  eyes  and 
be  brave!  You'll  often  be  here  after  your 
marriage,  won't  you;  and  in  the  meantime, 
your  village  is  not  far  away.  There  will  be 
lots  of  opportunities  for  you  to  come  over — 
and,"  she  whispered  confidentially,  "I  am  not 
so  young  as  I  once  was ;  perhaps,  who  knows 
— you  are  quite  a  good  little  cook!  Come 
then,  put  away  your  handkerchief  and  see  after 
your  things.  Is  this  your  trunk?  and  what  is 
that?  Your  bandbox  of  course.  Make  haste, 
child!" 

Estelle  rose.  She  was  ashamed  of  Her 
scarlet  cheeks  and  tear-stained  eyelids,  and 
sidled  timidly  away  in  the  wake  of  Perrine. 
The  latter  picked  up  the  two  packages  and 


210  THE  KEYNOTE 

flip-flapped  out  of  the  kitchen  in  her  list  slip- 
pers. 

"She's  just  a  baby,  poor  little  thing,"  sighed 
the  peasant-woman;  "her  tears  come  as  easily 
as  her  smiles.  But  where  can  Celestin  be? 
Celestin!"  she  called  in  the  raucous  tones  of 
the  field  worker,  accustomed  to  herding  ani- 
mals. 

One  of  the  small  boys  murmured  some- 
thing, shyly  sucking  at  a  twist  of  his  pinafore. 

"D'you  know  where  he  is?" 

The  little  chap  nodded. 

"Then  run  and  fetch  him,  there's  a  good 
lad!" 

The  three  children  darted  off  simultane- 
ously like  arrows  from  a  bow. 

Snow  was  still  falling  in  large  scattered 
flakes,  which  melted  as  soon  as  they  touched 
earth. 

The  children  soon  found  Celestin,  and  came 
back  with  him. 

He  walked  with  bent  head  like  a  man  in  a 
dream.  He  was  dressed  in  his  best:  an  em- 
broidered vest  of  black  cloth,  and  a  flapping 
felt  hat. 

"Where  on  earth  have  you  been  hiding,  my 
man?"  asked  his  sister. 

He  rubbed  the  back  of  his  neck  awkwardly 


THE  KEYNOTE  211 

with  his  gnarled  brown  paw,  shrugged  one 
shoulder  in  the  direction  of  the  kitchen  gar- 
den, and  mumbled:  "Over  there!"  staring 
vacantly  into  space. 

The  woman  climbed  into  the  cart,  pushed 
the  luggage  further  back,  arranged  the  seats, 
fussed  hither  and  thither  with  little  grunts  and 
exclamations. 

"There  we  are!"  she  finally  announced. 

Everybody  looked,  but  no  one  moved. 

"Now!"  said  Monsieur  des  Lourdines  at 
last,  with  a  visible  effort. 

"Now!"  repeated  Celestin,  after  a  momen- 
tary hesitation.  He  had  taken  off  his  big 
felt  hat  and  was  crumpling  up  the  brim. 

"Master!     Master!"  he  faltered. 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  held  out  both  his 
hands,  grasping  those  of  the  faithful  servant 
closely.     "My  poor  old  man !  my  dear  friend !" 

Celestin  broke  down.  He  wept  openly  with 
the  absence  of  reserve  of  the  lower  classes; 
every  muscle  of  his  face  was  knotted  and  dis- 
torted, the  tears  chased  each  other  down  his 
cheeks.  He  attempted  to  speak,  but  failed 
utterly.  He  shook  hands  all  round,  seeing 
nobody.  Anthime  murmured  something. 
Monsieur  des  Lourdines  pushed  him  into  the 
cart. 


212  THE  KEYNOTE 

At  last  the  two  heart-broken  retainers  dis- 
appeared under  the  tilt.  The  woman  took  up 
the  rope  reins,  the  horse  shook  his  head  and 
started  stiffly;  the  springs  creaked,  one  wheel 
bumped  roughly  against  the  mounting-block, 
the  vehicle  pitched  heavily,  settled  down,  and 
rolled  off. 

When  Anthime  turned,  he  found  himself 
practically  alone.  His  father  was  nowhere  to 
be  seen;  Perrine  was  just  disappearing  into 
the  kitchen;  only  the  three  children  remained, 
propped  against  the  wall,  silently  staring  at 
him. 

He  moved  towards  the  stables  and  finding 
the  door  open,  lurched  through  and  threw 
himself  face  downwards  on  a  truss  of  hay. 

"This  is  my  doing!  My  doing!  No! 
No!  it  is  not!  I  never  dreamt  of  all  this!  It 
is  that  devil  Miiller!  Damn  him!  Oh 
Stemof,  old  boy;  if  I  could  only  be  with  you 

for  five  minutes!" 

***** 

"Monsieur  Anthime!  Monsieur  An- 
thime!" ventured  Frederic,  in  coaxing  tones. 
"Don't!  Don't  lie  there!  You'll  make  your- 
self ill!" 

"It's  Miiller's  fault!" 


THE  KEYNOTE  213 

"Monsieur  Anthime!" 

"Oh  Frederic,  I  am  so  wretched!" 

"I  know  Monsieur  Anthime.  It's  a  black 
time  for  us  all.  But  get  up!  Get  up!"  The 
old  coachman  was  deeply  moved,  and  knew 
not  how  to  show  his  sympathy. 

"Leave  me  alone.  This  is  the  best  place 
for  me.     You  go,  and  leave  me!" 

Still  the  servant  did  not  move. 

"Go,  I  tell  you!     Leave  me  to  myself." 

Frederic  hesitated,  shook  his  head,  turned 
away,  and  went  out  shutting  the  stable  door 
behind  him. 

His  sabots  stumped  about  outside,  a  bucket 
was  cluttered  on  to  the  cobble  stones,  and 
finally  silence  fell.     Anthime  remained  alone. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ANTHIME  passed  through  some  ter- 
rible hours.  Celestin!  Estellel  His 
own  losses,  the  frightful  change  in 
the  whole  aspect  of  life,  regret  for  the  vanished 
past,  dread  of  the  future,  all  mingled  in  one 
pain  so  unbearable  as  to  be  almost  physical 
as  well  as  mental. 

He  wrung  his  hands,  called  upon  his  friend 
and  boon-companion,  Prince  Stemof,  groaned, 
and  prayed  for  death.  How  could  he  ever 
endure  the  only  existence  open  to  him?  His 
mind  wandered  back  to  the  delights  of  the 
past,  dwelt  again  on  the  hateful  interviews 
with  Muller  the  Jew,  travelled  to  his  enchant- 
ress, Nelly  de  Givernay.  Presently  an  aw- 
ful thought  occurred  to  him:  why,  when  it 
became  necessary  to  carry  the  body  of  his 
mother  downstairs,  had  his  father  waved 
Frederic  aside  and  insisted  upon  his  taking  the 
gruesome  task  upon  himself?  Why,  unless 
she  had  learnt  his  crime  and  died  under  the 
shock? 

214 


THE  KEYNOTE  215 

Was  it  a  righteous  punishment  inflicted 
upon  him  by  his  remaining  parent?  A  fresh 
spasm  of  misery  shook  him,  and  with  a  groan, 
he  buried  his  head  yet  deeper  in  the  straw. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  the  sound  of  the 
dinner-bell  recalled  him  to  the  exigencies  of 
daily  life.  Habit,  not  appetite,  brought  him 
to  his  feet.  He  tottered  across  to  the  house. 
A  heavy  snowfall  had  set  in,  spreading  a  white 
pall  over  the  earth,  and  entirely  obscuring  the 
house.  A  feeble  glimmer  behind  a  glass 
pane  alone  indicated  the  door. 

He  entered  the  dining-room.  His  father 
was  already  seated  at  the  table.  A  shaded 
lamp  concentrated  its  light  on  the  white  cloth, 
while  it  left  the  rest  of  the  room  in  dark- 
ness. 

Anthime  sat  down  and  drearily  counted  the 
drops  of  oil  as  they  fell  one  by  one  into  the 
glass  reservoir  of  the  old-fashioned  lamp. 

Neither  of  the  men  spoke.  The  shuffling 
of  Frederic's  flat  feet,  and  the  rattle  of  china 
and  silver  on  the  sideboard  alone  broke  the 
silence. 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  observed  his  son 
covertly.  He  had  never  before  seen  him  in 
like   condition:   hair   unbrushed,   hands   un- 


216  THE  KEYNOTE 

washed,  dress  disarranged,  haggard  and  wan 
of  face! 

"This  cannot  go  on,"  he  reflected  anxiously. 
"Something  must  happen!  He  will  go  and 
leave  me  alone  again." 

When  Frederic  had  finished  waiting  on 
them  and  had  withdrawn  to  the  pantry,  An- 
thime  cleared  his  throat: 

"Father,  I  want  to  know.  Did  my  mother 
hear  of  my  debts  before  she  died?  Did  she 
know  the  full  extent  of  our  losses?" 

His  breath  came  fast  and  his  heart  beat, 
so  that  his  words  were  uttered  with  difficulty. 
His  bloodshot  eyes  fixed  themselves  com- 
pellingly  on  his  father's  face. 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines  flushed,  looked 
down,  and  fingered  his  plate  unconsciously. 

"No!"  he  blurted  out. 

But  Anthime  had  noticed  the  momentary 
pause.  He  did  not  speak  again.  He  sat  back 
in  his  chair  and  took  a  long,  deliberate  look 
at  his  father;  noted  the  high  forehead,  dis- 
proportionately lofty  above  the  emaciated  fea- 
tures, the  blue  eyes  still  so  childlike  in  their 
expression  of  simplicity  and  benevolence,  the 
heavy  pockets  beneath  them,  the  pale  lips,  and 
thin,  wrinkled  neck.     Then,  rising  from  his 


THE  KEYNOTE  217 

seat,  he  did  a  thing  he  had  not  done  since  early 
childhood. 

He  went  slowly  round  to  his  father's  place, 
bent  over  him  and  kissed  him. 

A  ray  of  joy  and  surprise  lighted  up  the 
old  man's  face. 

He  looked  up  kindly  and  said  gently: 
"Going  to  bed,  my  boy?  That's  right,  sleep 
well.     Good-night,  son  1" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ANTHIME  rushed  to  his  room,  seized 
the  lamp  from  the  table,  and  holding 
it  high  above  him  gazed  with  a  scared 
expression  into  the  further  corners  of  the  large 
apartment  as  if  he  saw  ghosts  lurking.  He 
listened  a  moment  at  the  open  door,  and  finally 
put  down  the  light  and  proceeded  to  walk  up 
and  down  in  a  state  of  extreme  agitation. 
Presently  he  sat  upon  the  bed  and  gave  him- 
self up  to  reflection. 

Should  he  return  to  Paris  immediately  and 
endeavour  to  earn  his  living?  He  might  do 
well  as  a  jockey.  He  had  entertained  the 
idea,  vaguely  at  the  back  of  his  mind,  all  these 
days,  but  he  was  too  depressed  to  face  its 
difficulties.  Now  the  thought  of  suicide  was 
obsessing  him. 

It  had  burst  upon  him  suddenly  in  the 
stables,  when  he  realized  that  he  had  killed  his 
mother.  He  began  to  consider  it  as  a  means 
of  escape.  With  it  came  a  curious  lull  in  his 
suffering:  the  loss  of  his  fortune,  shame,  re- 

218 


THE  KEYNOTE  219 

morse,  the  horrors  of  the  future,  ceased  to 
trouble  him.  He  drifted  towards  death  and 
annihilation,  not  timorously,  but  with  the  me- 
chanical indifference  of  an  atom  driven  by 
overwhelming  forces.  In  his  present  mood 
Death  held  no  physical  terror;  nay,  it  offered 
release:  for,  he  thought,  to  die  by  one's  own 
hand  is  not  a  submission  to  a  relentless  force; 
it  is  rather  the  active  snatching  at  an  outlet 
which  seeks  to  evade  one. 

To  this  phase  succeeded  another,  one  more 
natural. 

The  actual  commission  of  the  deed  ap- 
peared full  of  horror.  Anthime's  teeth 
chattered,  and  a  cold  sweat  bathed  his  face. 
He  clutched  the  bedclothes  in  a  terrified  grasp. 
His  wavering  sight  fixed  itself  on  a  boar's 
head  hanging  on  the  wall.  How  well  he  re- 
membered the  day  it  had  fallen  to  his  gun, 
and  the  jovial  party  which  had  celebrated  his 
success  in  champagne! 

He  heard  his  father  go  to  his  room. 

He  resolved  to  give  him  time  to  go  to  sleep. 
Better  still;  he  would  not  fulfil  his  purpose 
here,  so  close  to  the  living;  he  would  go  down 
to  the  deserted  wing,  where  nobody  would 
hear  or  know  anything  for  hours. 

The  house  was  quite  silent.     He  opened  a 


220  THE  KEYNOTE 

cupboard,  ransacked  a  drawer  and  took  out  a 
case  containing  two  pistols.  They  were  large 
horse-pistols,  very  fine  antique  specimens, 
presented  to  his  grandfather  many  years  be- 
fore by  an  old  Royalist  general.  They  were 
loaded,  as  they  had  been  ever  since  the  time 
the  gift  was  made.  An  inscription  was  en- 
graved upon  them.  It  ran  thus:  "From  a 
White  to  a  White." 

He  took  out  the  old  charge  and  reloaded 
them  with  shaking  hands,  pausing  often  to  lis- 
ten, fearful  of  interruption.  His  door  must 
have  been  only  half  shut,  for  it  suddenly  burst 
open  under  the  pressure  of  a  heavy  body. 
Anthime  sprang  to  his  feet  and  hid  the  pistols 
behind  him.  It  was  only  Michka!  The  dog 
flew  to  his  master,  fawned  upon  him,  and 
rubbed  his  head  against  him  with  little  plain- 
tive whines  and  yelps  of  joy. 

Anthime  made  no  response.  He  still 
grasped  the  pistols,  and  stared  at  the  dog  as 
if  he  had  never  seen  him  before.  Presently, 
when  Michka  whined  louder  in  his  endeavour 
to  attract  his  master's  attention,  he  pushed 
him  abruptly  aside,  and  tried  to  say :  "Down, 
Michka!  Quiet,  old  dog!"  But  his  voice 
stuck  in  his  throat,  and  made  no  impression  on 
the  animal.     He  seized  him  by  the  collar, 


THE  KEYNOTE  221 

and  indifferent  to  his  boisterous  caresses 
dragged  him  down  to  the  hall,  opened  the  front 
door,  and  endeavoured  to  thrust  him  out. 
"Be  off!    Be  off!" 

A  flurry  of  snow  and  wind  forced  its  way 
into  the  house.  The  dog  refused  to  go.  He 
lay  down,  and  drooped  his  tail.  Anthime 
pushed  vigorously,  and  finally  despatched 
him  with  a  hearty  kick  and  closed  the  door. 
Michka  barked  violently  for  a  moment  or 
two,  and  then  trotted  slowly  away. 

Anthime  stood  alone  in  the  hall,  in  the  dark- 
ness. His  father  and  the  servants  were  prob- 
ably asleep,  participating  in  the  nocturnal 
silence  of  ninety  miles  of  deserted  country:  he 
could  hear  only  the  agitated  beating  of  his 
own  heart.  Superstitious  fears  assailed  him. 
He  tried  to  get  back  to  his  room,  moving 
slowly,  inhaling  with  every  breath  the  musty 
odour  characteristic  of  Petit-Fougeray.  A 
distant  sound  from  the  long  corridor  leading 
into  the  empty  wing  brought  his  heart  into  his 
mouth:  something  was  stirring!  A  reed- 
pipe?  A  flute?  No  shepherds  would  be 
moving  their  flocks  at  night,  nor  in  a  snow- 
storm, neither  would  they  be  in  the  house. 
He  recalled  some  of  the  weird  fantastic  tales  he 


222  THE  KEYNOTE 

used  to  hear  from  the  peasants  in  the  long 
winter  evenings  of  his  childhood.  He 
shivered,  and  moved  on  a  few  steps.  Now 
the  sound  was  nearer,  broader,  more  powerful. 
It  was  certainly  neither  a  reed-pipe  nor  a  flute. 
It  was  a  violin!  He  was  sure  of  that.  He 
could  tell  by  the  peculiar  sonorousness  and 
vibration  of  some  of  the  notes.  Terror  gained 
upon  him.  The  experience  was  so  unreal,  so 
ghostly.  Who  could  be  playing  the  violin? 
Perhaps  it  was  a  phantom  of  his  own  brain. 
Of  course!  It  was  a  hallucination,  created 
by  his  mind,  filling  all  his  senses  to  the  exclu- 
sion of  reality.  He  reeled,  closed  his  eyes  and 
fell  giddily  against  the  wall. 

With  one  shoulder  propped,  his  whole 
sentient  force  concentrated  itself  on  the  pistols. 
He  gripped  them  so  tightly  that  he  could 
hardly  feel  them;  the  sweat  poured  from  his 
brow.  He  waited  for  the  sound  to  cease,  but 
it  increased  in  volume.  It  seemed  to  be  pass- 
ing away,  yet  to  gain  in  intensity.  As  no 
harm  came  to  him  his  presence  of  mind 
gradually  returned.  He  grew  calmer,  raised 
his  head,  and  resolved  to  follow  and  identify 
it.  He  felt  his  way  to  the  entrance  of  the 
corridor  and  slowly  traversed  its  length.  A 
nervous  shudder  thrilled  him  as  he  realized 


THE  KEYNOTE  223 

that  the  tune  came  from  the  ruined  chapel! 
A  faint  light  was  discernible  through  a  crack 
of  the  door.  With  shaking  hands  he  pushed 
it  open.  A  flood  of  music  overwhelmed  him ; 
he  started  back  in  amazement. 

His  father  was  playing  the  violin! 

He  turned  to  go,  but  the  wailing  of  the 
strings  drew  him  against  his  will.  He  ad- 
vanced again,  cautiously  looked  in,  and  stood 
riveted,  astounded  at  the  sight  that  met  his 
eyes. 

Monsieur  des  Lourdines'  countenance  wore 
a  look  of  inspiration.  The  embrace  his  son 
had  bestowed  upon  him  earlier  in  the  even- 
ing, had  relit  the  torch  of  hope  in  his  loving 
heart.  There  was  no  one  with  whom  he 
could  share  his  joyous  emotion.  Some  out- 
let became  an  imperative  necessity.  He  flew 
to  his  room,  fetched  his  neglected  violin  and 
repaired  to  the  chapel.  Here  at  last  he  found 
relief.  As  in  former  days,  he  poured  out  his 
dumb  soul  in  music.  His  fingers  raced,  the 
bow  flew — new  harmonies  weaved  themselves 
unconsciously,  and  as  he  played,  his  brow 
cleared,  and  his  eyes  shone  with  ecstasy. 
"Anthime!  Anthime!"  was  his  theme.  The 
violin  shrieked,  prayed,  rejoiced,  triumphed. 


224  THE  KEYNOTE 

He  stood  in  the  tribune;  a  candle  placed  on 
a  projecting  beam,  his  only  light. 

Anthime  gazed  with  astonishment;  he 
hardly  recognised  his  plain  little  father,  in 
this  radiant  master  with  the  glowing  eyes  and 
flying  fingers.  He  remembered  to  have  heard 
vaguely  in  his  childhood  that  Monsieur  des 
Lourdines  was  something  of  a  musician,  but 
an  experience  such  as  this  was  utterly  un- 
dreamt of.  The  music  touched  him  strangely. 
The  high,  piercing  notes  excited  him,  the  low 
wailing  stirred  and  softened  his  heart.  A 
voluptuous  languor  took  possession  of  him; 
sitting  on  a  step,  his  head  buried  in  his  hands, 
his  spirit  soared  above  him  in  heavenly  dreams. 
Anthime  remained  as  long  as  his  father  played. 
The  cessation  of  sound  brought  him  abruptly 
down  to  earth.  He  opened  his  eyes,  and  be- 
came conscious  of  the  intense  cold  of  the  at- 
mosphere. A  blast  of  wind  came  in  through 
the  broken  window,  and  caused  the  candle  to 
gutter  and  throw  fantastic  shadows  on  the 
plaster  of  the  roof.  His  father  was  still 
standing,  rapt  in  thought,  holding  the  violin 
under  his  arm.  Anthime  lingered,  hoping 
he  would  play  again;  but  when  he  saw  him 
bend  down  to  pick  up  the  candle,  he  rose  noise- 
lessly and  fled. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  snowstorm  continued  unabated  all 
that  night  and  the  next  day.  At 
nightfall  the  stars  shone  out  brightly 
from  the  face  of  a  sky  black  as  ink  in  con- 
trast to  the  white  mantle  overspreading  the 
earth.  The  snow  was  banked  as  high  as  the 
window-sills  of  the  ground-floor,  with  never  a 
scratch  on  its  dazzling  surface.  Here  and 
there  a  few  belated  flakes  still  fell.  Petit- 
Fougeray  lay  peacefully  buried  under  its  pall. 

The  household  was  asleep.  No  smoke  rose 
from  the  chimneys.  The  lamps  had  long 
been  extinguished. 

The  moon  rose  beyond  the  woods ;  it  peeped 
through  the  gaping  window  of  the  chapel 
where  Monsieur  des  Lourdines  was  again 
playing;  it  planed  resplendent  above  the 
tribune. 

Anthime  wondered  anxiously  whether  its 

illumination  would  betray  the  secret  of  his 

presence;  but  he  had  established  himself  in 

a  dark  recess  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase  lead- 

225 


226  THE  KEYNOTE 

ing  to  the  tribune,  and  was  quite  safe.  He 
had  come  early,  to  wait  on  the  chance  of 
hearing  his  father  play  once  more.  He  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  shoot  himself  afterwards. 
The  pistols  lay  on  the  floor  at  his  side. 

The  day  had  dragged  wearily.  The  emo- 
tions of  the  previous  night  had  reawakened 
the  memories  of  past  pleasures,  and  in  par- 
ticular of  Nelly  de  Givernay,  whom  he  had 
no  prospect  of  seeing  again  in  life.  His  long- 
ing for  her  was  agonising,  yet  it  had  changed 
its  character  under  the  influence  of  his  fa- 
ther's music:  it  was  more  spiritual,  gentler; 
he  was  faintly  conscious  of  the  improvement. 
His  better  nature  craved  a  renewal  of  yester- 
day's elevation  into  higher  realms,  before  the 
final  fall  of  the  curtain. 

He  was  quite  close  to  his  father,  and  could 
watch  the  expression  of  his  face  by  the  light 
of  the  moon.  He  trembled  with  emotion,  for 
the  cry  of  the  violin  had  become  extraordi- 
narily poignant.  The  bow  was  as  if  pos- 
sessed; it  flew,  bit  into  the  strings,  or  lingered 
softly  over  them,  guided  by  a  master-hand. 
Its  sonorousness  was  somewhat  deadened  by, 
the  low  roof  and  confined  space;  yet  the  tone 
was  magnificent,  sometimes  clear  as  crystal, 
then  again  round  and  full  as  a  contralto  voice. 


THE  KEYNOTE  227 

Anthime's  heart  grew  lighter.  His  im- 
pressions of  the  night  before  were  not  re- 
peated. What  he  felt  now  was  less  violent, 
less  torturing;  he  forgot  Nelly;  a  soft  glow 
pervaded  his  being,  though  the  consciousness 
of  pain  remained  alive  within  him :  "As  soon 
as  he  stops,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  "I  shall 
relapse  into  infernal  torture.  I  shall  know 
again  that  life  is  insupportable!"  He  clung 
to  his  emotions,  putting  off  the  evil  moment. 
Recollections  of  early  childhood  floated 
through  his  brain.  He  remembered  the 
words  of  the  old  lullaby  his  nurse  used  to 
croon  over  him  at  bedtime.  How  did  it  go? 
It  was  all  so  long  ago.  Yes,  something  like 
this: 

Je  me  suis  endormi 

lerl 
rA  I'ombre  sous  un  thym, 
'Mais  a  mon  eveillee 

leree 
Le  thym  etait  fteuri. 

It  was  at  Charviniere.  His  old  nurse  I  He 
had  not  thought  of  her  for  twenty  years,  and 
now  when  the  end  of  all  things  was  at  hand, 
scenes  from  his  childhood  sprang  to  his  mind 
as  fresh  as  if  he  had  seen  them  yesterday:  the 
valley  and  the  old  homestead,  the  hay-stacks 


228  THE  KEYNOTE 

gilded  by  the  sunshine,  the  wide  fields  of  colza 
shining  yellow  as  far  as  eye  could  reach! 
Again  the  violin  sang: 

Je  ineu  fus  en  flutant 

leran 
Le  long  du  grand  chemin. 

He  was  stirred  through  all  his  being  by  these 
recollections. 

The  tune  suggested  others,  and  his  mind 
harked  back  to  the  old  chanties  and  ditties  that 
had  soothed  and  delighted  the  days  of  his  inno- 
cence; chanties  never  heard  since,  buried 
hitherto  in  oblivion. 

The  old  man  played  on,  air  succeeding  air. 
He  appeared  utterly  unconscious  of  his  sur- 
roundings, rapt  into  another  sphere.  An- 
thime  watched  him  with  amazement:  could 
this  indeed  be  the  shrinking,  reserved  little 
man  he  had  so  carelessly  taken  for  granted  and 
disregarded!  The  face  he  now  saw  as  if  for 
the  first  time  was  radiant,  glowing  with  pas- 
sion; the  movements  of  the  body  seemed  con- 
centrated into  the  swing  of  the  bow;  the  cheek 
caressed  the  ruddy  frame  of  the  instrument; 
every  now  and  then  the  dewy  eyes  raised  their 
ecstatic    glance   heavenward.     Anthime    saw 


THE  KEYNOTE  229 

that  his  spirit  had  soared  far  beyond  the  trou- 
bles of  this  world.  There  was  something  al- 
most saint-like  in  the  transfigured  brow. 

Like  a  flash,  the  true  explanation  Anthime 
had  been  groping  for,  came  to  him!  His  fa- 
ther's inspiration  came  from  within — from 
his  own  beautiful,  simple  nature,  and  child- 
like mind!  It  was  the  intrinsic  goodness  of 
the  man,  that  spoke  through  the  violin. 
The  instrument  was  the  articulate  medium  of 
this  dumb  soul;  by  means  of  its  thrilling  song, 
he  expressed  the  emotions  of  his  faithful 
heart. 

This  discovery  was  a  great  shock  to  An- 
thime. It  removed  his  father  to  a  sphere 
away  and  above  him  and,  completely  revolu- 
tionised his  attitude  towards  him. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  music  turned  to  wail- 
ing: Anthime  understood  that  his  father 
was  going  through  the  mental  torture  he  him- 
self had  lately  experienced,  and  with  a  groan 
he  buried  his  head  in  his  hands. 

The  direct  rays  of  the  moon  had  passed  be- 
yond the  broken  window.  Deep  gloom  now 
reigned  in  the  chapel.  The  candle  had 
burned  low,  and  gave  forth  smoke  and  a 
greasy  odour. 


230  THE  KEYNOTE 

Anthime  still  listened  vaguely,  but  the  eyes 
of  his  mind  were  turned  inwards,  and  in  these 
bitter  moments  he  was  learning  the  lesson  of 
life.  For  the  first  time,  he  saw  things  in 
their  true  proportion.  He  saw  what  his  fa- 
ther's life  had  been;  how  high  his  standard, 
how  faithful  his  performance;  then  he  looked 
into  his  own  soul,  and  recognized  its  mean- 
ness. He  remembered  with  a  pang  of  agony 
how  he,  he,  had  dared  to  mock  and  criticise 
one,  the  latchet  of  whose  shoe  he  was  not 
worthy  to  loose.  He  longed  helplessly  to  re- 
pair the  evil  he  had  done,  to  console  where 
he  had  tormented.  He  realized  the  sordid- 
ness,  sterility,  triviality,  of  his  life  in  Paris. 
He  suddenly  understood  why  his  father  had 
led  him  up  to  the  foot  of  the  Cross,  and  shown 
him  Nature  in  all  its  breadth  and  glory.  He 
remembered  how  his  unhappy  parent's  voice 
had  quivered  when  he  said:  "I  cannot  ex- 
plain myself,  but  surely,  surely,  my  boy,  you 
understand!" 

The  song  of  the  violin  had  indeed  wrought 
the  great  awakening. 

A  fresh  sound  broke  upon  his  reflections 
and  caused  him  to  look  up  in  astonishment: 
his  father  was  singing. 

The  quavering  accents  placed  the  climax 


THE  KEYNOTE  231 

upon  Anthime's  emotion.  They  carried  him 
back  to  the  Croix-Verte  and  the  sight  of  his 
father  calling  his  attention  to  the  land  of  his 
fathers.  He  understood  now  that  pathetic 
plea :  "You  do  not  know  what  it  is,  to  grow 
old!  You  do  not  understand  the  meaning  of 
love!"  He  longed  to  hold  out  his  arms  in 
answer  and  cry:  "Yes!  Yes!  Father,  for- 
give me,  for  I  know  now  ...  I  know!" 

The  candle  guttered  out.  The  violin  ceased 
from  wailing.  The  old  man's  voice  was 
hushed. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west 
amidst  a  splendour  of  rose  and  gold. 
Autumn,  dank  and  hazy,  held  the 
country  in  its  grip.  The  land  was  all  under 
plough.  Clouds  hung  lowering  above  the 
hill-tops. 

Suire,  the  miller,  seated  sideways  between 
two  sacks  of  flour  on  the  ample  back  of  his 
white  horse,  was  travelling  along  one  of  the 
grass-rides  of  the  forest. 

He  was  making  his  leisurely  way  towards 
Charviniere. 

He  was  in  no  hurry;  he  sat,  idly  swaying 
to  the  ambling  pace  of  the  old  nag,  his  lips 
pursed  in  a  soundless  whistle. 

The  ride  led  through  a  dark  glade  under 
the  yellow  leaves  of  ancient  chestnut  trees. 

Presently  he  reached  the  edge  of  the  forest. 
Before  his  eyes,  the  open  country  spread.  He 
could  see  the  red  tiled  roof  of  Charviniere, 
and  further  away,  the  sails  of  the  mills  of 

232 


THE  KEYNOTE  233 

Saint-Michel,  Fouchaut,  and  Aiglonnieres, 
turning  almost  in  unison,  showing  white 
against  the  blue  of  the  horizon.  Suire  gave 
them  a  quick  glance,  and  then,  skirting  the 
forest,  kept  a  bright  look  out  for  wild-game. 
Rooks  rose  in  confusion,  cawing  their  indigna- 
tion at  his  intrusion. 

Two  dogs,  a  big  mongrel  and  a  grey- 
hound, rushed  out  from  under  the  trees, 
tumbling  over  each  other,  romping  roughly. 

A  few  yards  further,  he  raised  his  cap  in 
greeting  to  two  men,  but  they  did  not  notice 
him.  They  walked  slowly,  side  by  side. 
Had  he  not  known  them  both  intimately,  he 
could  hardly  have  told  which  was  the  elder  of 
the  two. 

The  old  white  horse  moved  on,  carrying 
Suire  to  Charviniere,  while  the  father  and 
son  pursued  their  ramble,  becoming  mere 
specks  in  the  distance,  until  a  turn  in  the  road 
concealed  them  from  view. 


THE  END 


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SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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